


Day by Day

by waterwalksbarefoot



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: F/F, HIV/AIDS, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, Oops, TW: low appetite and weight loss, also discussion of domestic violence (canonical), in which I try to write about relationships and feelings but mostly just end up writing sickfic, includes lots of Jason because I love Jason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-07-23 13:03:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 65,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwalksbarefoot/pseuds/waterwalksbarefoot
Summary: Modern AU. A year and a half after they break up, Whizzer wants to get in touch with Marvin.





	1. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another one that got in my head and wouldn't get out. It's looking to be pretty long, so please forgive me if I'm slow to update!
> 
> Also, I did a TON of research, but I am in no way a medical professional and probably made plenty of errors. Please feel free to let me know if I got something wrong.

The last thing he expects over Friday night dinner with his son is for Jason to casually ask if he can give Whizzer his new number.

He chokes, just barely managing to avoid spraying water all over his burger. (Which is, to his eternal regret, not a cheeseburger, because Trina has guilted him into “setting a good example for our son” leading up to the Bar Mitzvah. Yet another reason he can’t wait for the damn thing to be over with.) “ _What_?” he sputters.

Jason rolls his eyes. “I _said_ , can I give Whizzer your new number?” He says this with exaggerated patience, like it’s a simple, everyday question. Like he hasn’t just broken their unspoken agreement to never talk about his ex-boyfriend ever again, let alone reveal that not only has he been in contact with said ex-boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend apparently wants to get in contact with _him_.

Marvin eyes him carefully. Jason is a smart kid, like he himself was in his day, and he’s not above using it to his advantage to get what he wants. He knows his son misses Whizzer. But if he thinks he can con them into getting back together… “Where is this coming from?”

Jason shrugs, the picture of innocence. “He asked.”

“Whizzer asked you to ask _me_ for my number?” Marvin isn’t buying it. Whizzer may be manipulative and underhanded, and he wouldn’t put it past him to use Jason for his own ends. But he’d never do anything that might make him look desperate.

“Well, no, “ Jason admits, looking nervous for the first time. “He just asked me to give it to him. But I said I had to ask you first, and he didn’t like that, but he said okay.”

That still doesn’t sound right. “Let me see your phone,” Marvin says.

“What? No!”

“Jason,” Marvin says, using his best Stern Dad voice. “It’s bad enough that you’ve been talking to Whizzer behind my back.” Jason squirms guiltily. “But if I find out you’re lying, too…”

“I’m not _lying_!” Jason says hotly.

“Then give me your phone and prove it.”

Jason glares at him. “ _Fine_. But don’t _touch_ anything, okay?” Marvin rolls his eyes, waiting patiently as Jason takes out his phone and pulls up a text conversation. “There, see?” he says, holding it out to him.

The screen shows what looks to be a brief conversation between his son and his ex, with plenty of emojis and what is probably some atrocious grammar. He grabs the phone from Jason’s hand to get a better look.

“Hey!”

“Old eyes, kid,” Marvin explains. Mostly truthfully. Jason pouts, but he does that so often it’s pretty much lost all impact. He looks back at the screen.

At the top, he reads through what must be the end of a long conversation about baseball, with Jason thanking Whizzer for his advice (at least, he thinks that’s what “thx” means) and Whizzer responding with a smiley face in sunglasses. Then, under today’s date, there’s a message from Whizzer: _Hey Jason, can you send me your dad’s new number? Thanks._

Jason, bless the kid, responded simply, _why_

With growing unease, he reads the next line: _I can’t explain right now, but it’s really important. I promise I’ll tell you once I talk to him._

_ill ask him_

_I’d honestly rather you didn’t. He might say no, and I really need to talk to him._

_hed kill me. ill ask him_

And then, finally, from Whizzer: _Okay._

Marvin looks up at Jason, who’s watching him warily. “When did this happen?” he asks, trying not to let his anger show in his voice.

Because he _is_ angry. Furious, really. How dare Whizzer use his son like this? How dare he put Jason, _twelve-year-old_ Jason, in the middle of their problems? This is exactly why they hadn’t lasted, he fumes to himself. Because Whizzer lacks the maturity and basic decency of a goddamn _hamster_ sometimes.

“This morning,” Jason says quietly. He’s shrinking back in his chair, his shoulders hunched, and Marvin sighs. So much for not showing his anger.

“I’m not mad at you, kid,” he says, doing his best to compose himself. “You did exactly right. I’m mad at _him_.”

One of the things he’s been working on in the last year or so is being honest with Jason, and it seems to work: his son’s shoulders relax, and he unsticks himself from the back of the chair. But he eyes Marvin thoughtfully as he says, “I don’t think he would’ve asked if it wasn’t _really_ important.”

And maybe he’s right; after all, Jason is a perceptive kid. Eerily so, sometimes. But all Marvin says, raising himself from his chair, is, “Finish your burger, Jason. I’m going to go give him a call.”

Still carrying Jason’s phone, he heads outside, trying to ignore the way his stomach flutters as he finds Whizzer in Jason’s contacts and presses the call button.

* * *

“Hey, Jason,” Whizzer says.

That’s his cheerful-for-the-kid voice. Marvin had heard it plenty of times over their fiery ten months, when they were fighting, or building up to a fight, or hadn’t yet reconciled after one. Which is a good reminder of just how unstable that whole relationship had been.

Even if hearing Whizzer’s voice again, no matter the circumstances, sets his whole damn body aglow.

“Whizzer, it’s Marvin,” he says, and his ex goes abruptly quiet. “Jason said you wanted to talk to me.”

He hears a shaky sigh on the line, distant, as though Whizzer has held the phone away from him. He tries to force down the weird mix of nerves and concern the sound inspires in him. He’s _angry_ , goddammit, he reminds himself.

“Hi, Marvin,” Whizzer says quietly.

He waits a second, but he says nothing else. “So?” Marvin prompts, none too kindly.

Another moment of silence, during which he grows increasingly impatient, and then Whizzer says cautiously, “Listen, I really think we should talk in person.”

It’s so presumptuous that for a moment Marvin can only sputter. Wrenching himself back under control, he spits out, “That’s what you think, huh?”

“Marvin—”

“No, I don’t want to hear it! Bad enough that you’ve been talking to Jason behind my back—”

“He told me you knew—”

“Like hell he did! You just didn’t care!”

“He _did_ tell me that, actually,” Whizzer says, and Marvin’s almost relieved to hear that he’s getting angry, too. Good: he knows how to handle Whizzer like this, Whizzer spiteful and biting, vicious, verging on cruel. Quiet, cautious Whizzer: that’s a stranger to him, one that honestly makes him a little nervous. “But you’re right, I didn’t care. I love Jason, Marvin. I’m not going to disappear on him, no matter what you say.”

That shuts him up.

Another sigh, clearly audible this time. “We need to talk,” Whizzer says again. “I swear I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t really important.”

“You mean, use my son to get my attention,” Marvin says, but there’s not as much heat to it as he intends. _I love Jason_ , Whizzer had said. Whizzer, who scoffed at the idea of love, who had fought with him regularly over their time together about “playing at families.” _I love Jason_.

“I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you,” Whizzer admits. “I didn’t even know you’d changed your number until I tried calling the old one and it said it was out of service.”

“I was getting too many spam calls,” Marvin says absently. “Changed it about a year ago.” A few months after their breakup, he doesn’t say; Whizzer can do the math.

“Please, Marvin,” Whizzer says, and fuck, if quiet Whizzer made him nervous, desperate Whizzer—pleading Whizzer—outright scares him. “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Marvin says. “Okay. We can meet up. I’ve got Jason this weekend, so maybe Monday?”

“Actually, um.” Whizzer’s voice is as small as he’s ever heard it. “If we don’t do it now, I think I might lose my nerve.”

Marvin sighs, rubbing at his face with his hand. “This had better be a goddamn emergency, Whiz.”

Too late, he registers the nickname, cursing himself for slipping up. Which is why he almost doesn’t react when Whizzer gives a humorless, choking little laugh.

“Whizzer?” he says, after a moment. “Is this an emergency?”

There’s a pause, during which his heart starts racing. “Not… quite,” Whizzer says.

Marvin curses. “Text me your address. I’ll be right there.”

* * *

He drops Jason off at his apartment; no way is he letting his kid get anymore involved in all this, at least not until he figures out what _all this_ is. Of course, Jason’s none too happy about that, pestering Marvin to tell him about their conversation and what Whizzer said and what he said and whether he’s mad and whether Whizzer’s mad until finally Marvin promises to tell him everything once he and Whizzer have talked. “You’d better mean it,” Jason says, hopping out of the car. “Besides, if you don’t tell me, I’ll just ask him.”

“We’ll talk about _that_ later, too,” Marvin says, and Jason winces. Marvin smiles at him, hoping it covers up the way his stomach is doing anxious somersaults. “Now scram,” he says, and Jason sticks out his tongue at him.

“Call me if you need anything!” he shouts at his son’s retreating back. “And don’t forget, if there’s an emergency—”

“‘Go get Charlotte and Cordelia,’” his son mimics. “I _know_ , Dad.” He disappears into the building.

“And shut the car door behind you,” Marvin mutters to the empty seat. Sighing, he pulls it closed himself, tapping on the car’s GPS to put in Whizzer’s address. It’s across town, of course, in Queens, about half an hour from his own downtown apartment—assuming there’s no traffic, which there will be. He sends a quick text to Whizzer, having now saved his number to his own phone, letting him know he’ll be there soon. Then he puts on some music to calm his nerves.

All in all, it takes him an hour to get to Whizzer’s apartment, during which time he tries to compose himself a little and only manages to get more worked up than ever. Now he’s standing outside Whizzer’s door, trying to nerve himself up enough to actually knock.

It’s just… it’s been over a year, now, almost a year and a half, and no matter how hard and how often he tries to deny it to himself, Marvin knows he still isn’t over his ex. Or, he should say, _this_ ex: there have been others, since. He’s not entirely pathetic, after all. But then, try as he might, none of them could really hold his interest for very long. Plus, Jason had hated all of them, and he couldn’t very well date a guy his child disapproved of, could he?

 _I love Jason,_ Whizzer had said. And he knows full well that Jason loves Whizzer, too. Which, as always, leaves Marvin in the middle, grasping for both of their love.

“Oh, grow some balls,” he mutters to himself, and raps twice on the door.

It opens after a long moment, during which he nearly manages to convince himself that he’s got the wrong address and has to pull his phone out to check. So he doesn’t even realize Whizzer is standing there until he hears a cough and looks up.

And frowns, because Whizzer is still coughing, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to stop anytime soon.

Awkwardly, he puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to ignore the way his whole body thrills at the contact. When he doesn’t get shrugged off, he pushes it further, steering Whizzer gently into his own apartment and pushing him down onto the threadbare futon in the corner. It’s a studio, he notes absently as he grabs a glass from the dish rack by the sink and turns on the faucet, about half the size of Jason’s bedroom, maybe. There’s a battered old coffee table in the middle of the room, with two mismatched chairs crouched around it, and a small chest of drawers by the window that can’t possibly hold all of Whizzer’s (many) clothes. And that’s about it for furniture.

He brings Whizzer the glass, who takes it gratefully, chugging down half the water in one go. Unsure what to do with himself, he stands and watches, his concern growing as he takes in Whizzer’s red and puffy eyes, the way his cheeks have thinned, the hoarseness in his voice as he finally speaks. “Sorry, Marvin.”

“Don’t apologize,” Marvin says automatically. He pulls out one of the chairs from the coffee table and sits, watching Whizzer carefully. He’s definitely thinner, his dark blue shirt just a touch too big, his belt cinched tight around his waist. Not that Marvin’s looking at his waist, of course. Or anywhere near there. “You look…”

“Sick?” The half-smile he throws at him is classic Whizzer: sardonic and humorless, almost snide. But his voice is soft as he says, “This isn’t how I imagined seeing you again.”

Marvin can’t help himself: “Seeing me again?”

Whizzer waves a dismissive hand at him. “You know I stayed in touch with Jason. I figured I’d probably run into you somewhere down the line. Wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses, most likely, so you’d remember what you were missing.” He winks, and Marvin laughs.

“You wouldn’t need to, you know,” he says, in spite of his best judgment. “I always knew what I was missing.”

Whizzer coughs again, though he thinks this time it’s just an excuse to look away. He takes another sip from the glass, and Marvin looks down, his face hot.

The ring of glass on wood gets him to look up again: Whizzer’s put the glass down, his face serious. “Okay,” he says. “I need to tell you something, and it’s honestly going to be pretty hard for me, so please just don’t say anything until I’m done.”

He nods.

Whizzer takes a deep breath. He’s wringing his hands, something he only ever does when he’s feeling extremely anxious, and Marvin can feel his own anxiety ratcheting up another notch.

“I’ve been sick for a while,” Whizzer starts, looking down at his hands. “About a month or so, and it wasn’t getting better.”  He looks up at Marvin with another of those little half-smiles. “You know how much I hate going to the doctor,” he says, and Marvin grimaces, because he does. Getting Whizzer just to go to a routine check-up had been a _trial_.

“But eventually I kind of had to go,” Whizzer continues. “So I went to this clinic, and they asked me…” Here he swallows, looking back down again. He takes a couple of deep breaths, opens his mouth to start again, but then he shakes his head and closes it, unable to go on.

“They asked you what?” Marvin says gently, after a moment.

Whizzer shakes his head again, and Marvin realizes to his horror that there are tears in his eyes. Oh, jesus, he thinks, what the hell do I do now? Just a little over an hour ago, he was so angry at this man he could barely think. But now…

Before he can do anything, Whizzer chokes out, “Marvin, I have HIV.”

He’s stunned into silence.

“They called me this morning with the results. They were positive. They want me to start treatment next week.”

Marvin’s still staring at him, unable to find words. A million questions are rearing in his head, but he can’t seem to sort them out enough to even begin to ask. Mostly, all he can think, over and over again, is _How_?

Which is a stupid question. He knows how. What, did he think Whizzer was celibate in their over-a-year apart?

Whizzer’s turned away from him, head down. More than anything in the world, Marvin wants to hold him.

But he can’t, can he? He gave up the right to that a long time ago.

All he can do is ask, numbly, “How bad?”

“I don’t really know yet,” Whizzer confesses. “They wanted me to come in tomorrow, but I…”

“But what?”

Whizzer looks up at him, finally, his eyes starry and bright and red, then looks back down again at his hands. “But I don’t get paid until next week.”

God, like he didn’t think his heart could hurt any worse. “I’ll pay,” he says immediately.

But Whizzer shakes his head. “No.”

“Whizzer, don’t be stubborn, this is serious—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” The look on his face is as raw as Marvin’s ever seen it. “I _know_ this isn’t just a cold. I know this could kill me, I’m not stupid.” He shakes his head, ignoring Marvin’s silent, pleading expression. “But I didn’t ask you here for your money.”

It hadn’t actually occurred to him until now to wonder why Whizzer had asked him here at all. But now he frowns, unsure. “Then why?”

“Do I really need to spell it out?” When Marvin continues to stare blankly at him, he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Marvin, we were together for nine months—”

“Ten months,” Marvin corrects automatically.

“—and there’s no way to know when I got infected.”

Oh, _shit_.

“You can’t mean—”

“You need to get tested,” Whizzer says. He’s dead serious, staring Marvin in the eye. “As soon as you can.”

Marvin swallows, staring back. He’d just assumed that Whizzer must have contracted the virus after their breakup, during their time apart. But, of course, Whizzer hadn’t exactly been monogamous when they were together, had he? It was one of the main things they’d fought about. How he had never been enough.

And now look where that’s gotten them.

He gets up off the chair, storming over to the other side of the room. Which isn’t far, but at least he can put his back to Whizzer, take a moment to try and still his pounding heart.

Because the truth is, he’s terrified. He doesn’t know much about HIV, nothing more than the average layperson. There’s treatment for it now, he thinks, but how effective it is, and what the side-effects might be, he has no idea. He doesn’t even know how to get tested for it. Or where. Or what the hell he’ll do if it comes back positive.

Jesus christ. He’s in so far over his head here.

From behind him, he just barely hears Whizzer whispering, “I’m sorry.”

 _Sorry for what?_ he wants to scream at him. _For risking everything for a quick screw? For finally realizing that there are consequences, now that it’s too late? For dragging me down with you?_

But what he says instead is, “Where is this clinic?”

Still facing the wall, he can’t see Whizzer’s expression. But he can hear the uncertainty in his voice as he asks, “Why?”

“Because I need to get tested, apparently.”

“It’s on Junction Boulevard,” Whizzer says after a moment. “But, uh, you could probably find something a little closer to you, if you wanted.” He doesn’t say _and less poor_ , but Marvin hears it anyway.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Marvin says, turning back around. “I’ll have Trina pick up Jason.”

Whizzer blinks at him. “We?”

“Yes, you’re coming too,” Marvin says. “Now pack up some clothes and let’s get going.”

“But they’re closed—”

Marvin rolls his eyes, unable to help himself. “Not to the clinic,” he explains slowly. “To my apartment.”

“What? Why?”

Marvin looks him over critically, taking in the way he’s hunched over himself, one hand pressed to his chest. “Because you need a doctor,” he says. “And I have some very good neighbors.”

* * *

In the car, Marvin calls Jason. And then calls him again, because the rotten kid didn’t pick up the first time.

Whizzer is slouched beside him in the passenger seat, battered old suitcase in his lap. It’s the same one that Marvin kicked him out with, a year and a half ago, and he can’t help but feel like it’s accusing him of something every time he catches sight of it. Which is doing _wonders_ for his mood.

It doesn’t help that it took nearly twenty minutes of alternately fighting, bartering, and finally pleading with Whizzer to get him to come along. In the end, the only thing that had actually worked was guilting him about Jason being home alone and waiting to hear from him. “And I’m not leaving here without you,” he had finished, to which Whizzer had finally bitten out a reluctant “ _Fine_.”

All of which is to say, he’s a little stressed. And that’s not even to mention the possible diagnosis hanging over him, which he really can’t think about right now.

So when Jason finally answers the phone, he’s a little less patient than he probably should be. “Why didn’t you answer the first time?” he barks.

“God, Dad, chill,” Jason says over the car’s stereo. Whizzer lets out a laugh, and his son’s voice is considerably brighter as he asks, “Is that Whizzer?”

Marvin glares at the speakers. “Yes, Whizzer’s coming back with me.”

The laugh has turned into a cough, one that Whizzer is trying to stifle with little success. “Is he okay?” Jason asks.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Marvin says. “I just want Charlotte to take a look at him.”

“Should I call her?”

Marvin smiles. Sometimes it just hits him how good of a kid he’s raised—often in spite of himself, it seems. “Yeah, buddy, would you? Tell her it’s an old friend of mine.”

“She knows who Whizzer is, Dad,” Jason says, because apparently tact is not one of the things he’s managed to instill in his kid. So, more what you’d expect from him, then.

Whizzer, who’s finally stopped coughing, raises an eyebrow at him. Marvin ignores him.

“Just call her, okay? And then call your mom and ask her if she can pick you up.”

“ _What_? Why?”

Marvin sighs. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but it’s just not going to work out this weekend. How about I take you out to dinner on Wednesday to make up for it?”

“That’s bull,” Jason declares.

“Jason—”

“You can’t have Whizzer over for the first time in a _year_ and then kick me out! That’s not fair!”

“I’m not kicking you out—”

“And besides,” Jason says, a canny note creeping into his voice, “Mom and Mendel are going away this weekend.”

A pause. “Since when?” Marvin says carefully. “And to where?”

“I don’t know,” Jason huffs. “It’s not like they told me. Nobody tells me anything in this family.”

“Alright, alright,” Marvin says. “But I’m calling Trina, and if she tells me a different story—”

“Ugh, stop accusing me of lying all the time! Just because _you’re_ always lying to _me_ —”

“ _Hey_ —”

“Jason, your dad’s not lying,” Whizzer cuts in unexpectedly. Marvin shoots a glance at him, but he’s looking out the window, his voice gravelly but assured. “He’s just trying to protect you.”

“Protect me from what?” Jason says. “From you?”

Whizzer looks over at him.

“ _No_ ,” Marvin says firmly, to them both. “No, of course not. God, how could you think— I’m just trying to—”

“Okay,” Whizzer says, softly. Louder, to Jason, he says, “It’s just going to be a long weekend, that’s all. And you probably have better things to do than hang out with us in a waiting room.” He looks over at Marvin, who nods gratefully.

“Well, I don’t care,” Jason says. “I’ll bring my Switch. But I’m not going back to Mom’s.”

Despite himself, Marvin’s heart swells. A year ago, Jason would have taken any excuse not to spend time with him. And now here he is, refusing to leave even when he’s asked to.

Although a fair amount of that probably has to do with Whizzer.

To his surprise, though, he finds he doesn’t really resent that so much. So Jason and Whizzer are close: sure, it’s an odd friendship, but one he kind of understands. They’re both stubborn, both manipulative when they want to be, both sharp at the edges. But they’re also both fiercely loyal, when you’ve earned it.

It’s possible the look he’s sending Whizzer right now is a little more fond than it ought to be, considering the bemused face he’s getting in return.

He clears his throat, turning his focus back to the road. “Okay, Jason. Just don’t forget to let Charlotte know we’re coming, okay?”

“Gonna call her right now! Bye!” Jason hangs up quickly, probably so that Marvin won’t have time to change his mind.

He shakes his head, easing on the brakes to avoid crashing into the criminally slow Camry ahead of them. “Pain in the ass,” he mutters to himself, but he’s smiling. He can feel Whizzer’s eyes on him; he glances over to see a considering expression on his face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Whizzer says. “Just… you’ve changed.”

Embarrassingly, he blushes. “What do you mean?”

He can see Whizzer shrug out of the corner of his eye. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you give in to him, that’s all.”

That can’t be true, can it? He’d always felt like he was giving in to Jason, all the time. They’d gone to baseball games together, hadn’t they? Even though he hated baseball? He’d made sacrifices for his son. Maybe he’d resented it after, but he’d done it.

But then, this didn’t feel like a sacrifice. Maybe that was the difference.

The Camry turns off down a side street and he gladly puts on some speed, trying to ignore the way Whizzer’s eyes are _still_ trained on him. He manages for all of two minutes before he has to ask, “ _Now_ what?”

The cheeky grin is exactly the same as he remembers it. “So your neighbor knows who I am, does she?”

Marvin groans. God, he is going to _kill_ Jason. “Okay, so maybe you’ve come up once or twice.”

“Aww, Marv,” Whizzer teases. He coughs into his arm and Marvin stiffens, but thankfully no fit follows. “Hopefully you didn’t tell her _too_ much. Wouldn’t want to shock her, after all.”

“She’s a lesbian, actually.” He’s back in another patch of slow-moving cars, so he turns to look straight at him. “She knows exactly what you were to me.”

To his delighted surprise, it’s Whizzer’s turn to blush. He turns away quickly, and Marvin grins, enjoying the rare victory.

They start moving again, now in a more or less companionable silence. Whizzer coughs once or twice, making Marvin startle, but it seems that as long as he keeps relatively quiet and still it doesn’t get too bad.

They’re almost at the apartment when Whizzer says, “I don’t want anyone to know.”

He’d been expecting that, of course. It’s not like he wants to parade around the possibility of himself having it, either. But: “Charlotte’s a doctor,” he reminds him. “It’s probably a good idea to tell her.”

Whizzer shakes his head. “I get that she’s your friend,” he says, “and that you trust her. But I don’t know her, and I—Marvin, you’re the first person I’ve told, I’m not _ready_ —”

“Okay,” Marvin says. He carefully puts aside the information that Whizzer’s told him first; he’ll figure out what that means later. For now, he pulls into his parking spot, turning to face him as Whizzer starts to cough again. Helplessly, he puts a hand on his shoulder, hoping to offer at least some degree of comfort. “I won’t tell anyone you don’t want to know, okay? I promise.”

* * *

It’s a whole lot harder to keep that promise once they’re actually in Charlotte’s apartment.

It’s Cordelia who answers the door, blonde curls bouncing. She takes in at a glance the way that Whizzer clings to Marvin’s arm, Marvin’s hand on Whizzer’s back, and her eyes grow wide. Thankfully, though, she doesn’t say anything, just ushers them in with her usual bright smile.

Charlotte’s in the living room, waiting for them. She gestures for Whizzer to take a seat on the couch, frowning as she looks him over. He smiles awkwardly back at her, his hand over his chest as if to physically hold in a cough.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Whizzer,” Charlotte says, sitting across from him on one of the plush armchairs. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me too,” Whizzer says, but anything else he was going to say gets swallowed up in a fresh fit of coughing.

Marvin hopes the look he sends Charlotte isn’t quite as pleading as he fears it is, but judging from her expression, she knows exactly how scared he feels in that moment.

“How long have you had that cough?” she asks quietly once it’s died down.

He shrugs. “About a month,” he says. He’s trying to be nonchalant, but the way he’s essentially gasping for air isn’t doing much to help his cause.

“And have you been to your doctor?” she asks. Whizzer glances up at Marvin, then quickly away. Charlotte, noticing, adds, “Marvin, why don’t you go check on Jason?”

He hesitates, torn. On the one hand, he really should go talk to Jason, and Whizzer couldn’t be in safer hands. But on the other…

“No,” Whizzer says. He’s wringing his hands again, and his shoulders are as stiff and tense as Marvin’s ever seen them. “Please. Stay.”

Well, there’s no way he can leave after that, is there?

Charlotte nods. “Then take a seat, Marvin,” she says. “Your hovering is making me nervous.”

He shoots her a grateful look. Charlotte is never nervous, but she certainly is perceptive.

“Cordelia!” she shouts into the kitchen. “Could you go keep Jason company for a while?”

“Ooh, I’ll bring over some cookies!” Cordelia shouts back. “I just made some yesterday!”

Poor Jason. Then again… “Thanks, Cordelia,” he says. “I’m sure he’ll love them.” There. That ought to teach his kid some tact.

Or the night will end in hurt pride and bruised feelings, but really, who’s counting?

Charlotte shakes her head at him, amused, but she turns back to Whizzer with surprising gentleness. “I’m guessing you don’t have a regular doctor.”

“Not as such,” Whizzer agrees.

“Would you allow me to take some vitals? I’d like to check your heart rate and listen to your lungs, if you’re okay with that.”

“Sure,” he says, glancing at Marvin. He’s twisting his hands so hard that his knuckles are white. Casually, Marvin reaches over and grabs one, holding it still. He pretends not to notice the wide-eyed look Whizzer sends him.

Charlotte’s looking between them in a way that, Marvin knows, means she’ll want answers later. But she doesn’t say anything, instead pulling on her stethoscope and getting to work.

Every time she instructs Whizzer to take a deep breath, he coughs, and Marvin can see her face tightening each time. Finally, she pulls back, setting the stethoscope carefully down on the coffee table before turning back to face them. “Well, without a blood test or an X-ray, I can’t be as certain as I’d like,” she says. “But my best guess would be pneumonia.”

“How bad is that?” Marvin says.

She looks at him seriously. “For a healthy adult, it’s not usually too big a concern. We would get him some antibiotics, make sure he got some rest, and you’d likely be seeing improvement in about a week or so.” She turns her gaze back to Whizzer, carefully neutral. “But it can get more complicated if there are other conditions in play.”

Marvin bites his tongue, reminding himself fiercely of his promise. But the urge to ask her just what she means by that is all but choking him.

Whizzer, too, apparently, who starts to cough again.

Charlotte sighs, looking between them. “My recommendation would be to go to urgent care.”

“Not the hospital?” asks Marvin.

“Urgent care is going to cost you less,” she says frankly, addressing Whizzer. “But they might be closed by now, so you’d have to wait until tomorrow. Up to you if you think you can hold out that long.”

“I’m fine,” Whizzer gasps.

Charlotte purses her lips but says nothing. Instead, she gestures with her head for Marvin to join her in the kitchen, which, after a quick glance at Whizzer (who shrugs), he does.

“Alright,” she says, as soon as they’re out of earshot, “tell me what’s really going on.”

He shakes his head quickly, more for his sake than hers: it’s taking everything he has right now not to tell her everything. But: “I made a promise.”

“I’m not asking you to break a confidence,” she says. “But for him to show up like this, what, two years after you broke up?”

“Year and a half,” he corrects automatically. He frowns at her. “What are you trying to say?”

“Marvin, you’re my friend.” She shakes her head, expression wry. “Pain in the ass that you are.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly.

“And I know the guy’s sick, and that sucks, but—”

“But _what_?” He’s trying not to get defensive, he really is, but he’s bristling all the same.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she says softly.

He sighs, reminds himself that she’s just trying to help. “You don’t know the full story,” he reminds her.

“That’s why I’m asking you.”

“I don’t just mean now. Charlotte, you didn’t know me back then. You didn’t know _us_.” He thinks of the way Whizzer had looked at him in the car, the way he’d said _you’ve changed_. “Things are different now.”

“I hope so,” she says. “For your sake.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “You should hope so for his.”

“Well, for both of you, then.” She smiles at him, then abruptly changes topics. “Marvin, whatever’s going on with him, _medically_ , his doctor will need to know.”

“I know,” he says softly.

“Even if he doesn’t want to tell them.”

“I know.”

“Even if he made you promise—”

“Charlotte, I _know_.”

“It’s just that I’ve seen things,” she goes on anyway. “Bad drug interactions, or underlying conditions, and suddenly it doesn’t matter how good the doctor is, things go very wrong.”

“You should be telling him this, not me.”

She shrugs. “He doesn’t trust me. You do.”

“Tell me the truth, Charlotte,” he says. “Should I be taking him to a hospital?”

She smiles at him wearily. “I don’t have enough information to tell you that.”

From the living room, he can hear Whizzer start to cough again.

“I’ll get him some water,” Charlotte says softly. “Is he staying with you tonight?”

He squares his shoulders, expecting disapproval. “Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “Keep an eye on him. And try to get him to eat something, if you can.”

She heads over to the sink, and he returns to the living room, where Whizzer is red-faced, chest heaving, looking thin and weary and sick. And he hates himself, in that moment, for just being grateful he’s there with him at all.

* * *

“Hi, Whizzer!” Jason trills, then stops, taking in his haggard appearance. “Gee, you look awful.”

“ _Jason_ ,” Marvin hisses.

But Whizzer laughs, a warm chuckle that’s exactly how Marvin remembers it, and, well. He can hardly scold Jason for inspiring that sound, can he?

“I’m just finishing up your dishes!” Cordelia calls from the kitchen as he leads Whizzer over to the couch. He winces; Cordelia apparently has the same level of tact as his son. He wonders how the cookies went.

“Still haven’t learned to do dishes, then?” Whizzer teases, settling back against the cushions.

“Save your breath,” Marvin says sternly. “You can make fun of me all you want later.”

Whizzer raises his eyebrows. “Gonna take you up on that,” he murmurs.

Marvin sighs. “Don’t I know it.”

“Whizzer, wanna see my baseball game on the Switch?” Jason calls from the direction of his room.

“Jason, Whizzer isn’t feeling so great—”

“Sure!” Whizzer says brightly.

Jason comes barreling out, Switch already clutched in his hands, and jumps up on the couch beside him. Marvin rolls his eyes, already forgotten. His son and his ex-lover, bonding over baseball: Trina will be thrilled.

He goes to the kitchen, where Cordelia is humming to herself as she rinses off plates. “Need any help?” he offers, leaning against the counter.

“I should be asking you that. Have you always been this bad at cleaning up after yourself?”

He chuckles ruefully. “Whizzer would certainly say so. Trina too.”

At the sound of Whizzer’s name, she slows, wiping off a plate thoughtfully with the dish towel. “He’s not what I pictured.”

He reaches for the towel; she hands it off to him. “What did you picture?”

“After everything you told us,” she says, passing him a plate to dry, “I kind of thought he would be… meaner.”

He keeps his gaze on the plate, wiping it carefully. “You haven’t even talked to him yet.”

“But I’ve seen how he talks to you.” She takes the plate from his hands and, with it, his excuse not to look at her. Placing it in the dish rack, she turns back to him with her hands on her hips, her blue eyes stern. “And how you talk to him.”

“What’s wrong with how I talk to him?” he says indignantly.

“Marvin,” she sighs, “you’re not exactly subtle. I’ve _never_ seen you pine for a guy like this.”

He’s sure his face is bright red, but he tries to pretend to be unaffected, putting his hands on his hips to match her. “If you’re going to tell me to be careful, your wife already beat you to it.”

She shakes her head. “I want you to be careful with _him_.” At his wounded look, she elaborates, “I know you care about him; anyone could see that. But I’m not sure you realize how much he clearly cares about you, too.”

He’s not sure what to say to that. Whizzer, care about him? A year and a half ago, that had been everything he’d wanted. But now he’s just not sure he can believe it.

Although… it’s been different, today. Whizzer’s been different. Even his teasing has felt softer, less mocking than he remembers. Maybe things have changed, from how they were. Maybe they’ve both changed.

He doesn’t know when Cordelia learned to read thoughts, but she’s nodding at him like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. “Don’t you break his heart, Marvin. Whatever happened between you in the past, he doesn’t deserve it now.”

He clears his throat, desperate to change the subject. Luckily for him, that’s when Jason emerges from the living room, an odd look on his face that Marvin can’t read. Not that that’s unusual, with Jason; he hardly ever knows what his son is thinking.

“What’s up, bud?” he says, trying to sound nonchalant. And, okay, he does know _that_ look: it’s the unimpressed, you’re-not-fooling-anyone look that Jason is so fond of bestowing on his parents. At least Trina gets it, too, he supposes. “Where’s Whizzer?”

Jason shrugs. “He fell asleep.” His mouth twists a little, brow creased.

Is he upset about the baseball game? “I’m sure he didn’t mean to—”

“I _know_ he’s sick, Dad,” Jason interrupts. “I’m not stupid.”

So not the game, then. He looks back at Cordelia for help, who’s watching Jason with sympathy. How is it she can understand his own son better than he can?

“He’ll be okay, Jason,” she says kindly. “Charlotte looked him over, and you trust her, don’t you?”

Jason nods, his head down. Marvin’s stomach is twisting into knots. “Bud…” he tries, but stops, unsure how to continue.

“He just seems really sick,” Jason mumbles to the ground.

“He’ll be okay,” Marvin reiterates weakly.

Jason looks up at him, and Marvin is surprised to see the fire in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have kicked him out.”

Marvin chokes, taking a step back out of pure shock. They’ve _never_ talked about this. After Whizzer had left, Jason had asked, once, where he was. Marvin had said “not here.” That had been the end of it.

Every guy he’d introduced Jason to, after that, had been met with indifference at best, total disdain at worst. But they’d never talked about Whizzer again.

It’s possible that this was a mistake, he’s realizing now.

“He—I didn’t—” Marvin protests incoherently. Jason is glaring at him, all the righteous anger of a 12-year-old in Trina’s brown eyes. Marvin’s own anger flares, and for a moment he seriously considers sending the kid to his room, shutting this down now before it has the chance to hurt him.

But he takes a deep breath, and reminds himself again that things have changed. It’s his mantra today, apparently.

“I didn’t kick Whizzer out, Jason,” he says as calmly as he can manage. He’s very aware of Cordelia’s presence, hovering awkwardly in the background. “Where did you get that idea from?”

Jason eyes him skeptically. “Why else would he leave?”

Marvin sighs, half wishing he’d sent him to his room after all. “Because he wanted to, kid.”

“So _he_ dumped _you_?”

“Well, no, but—it’s not that simple—”

“Because I don’t think he wanted to leave.”

Marvin’s heart skips a beat. “He told you that?”

Jason rolls his eyes. “He didn’t have to _tell me_. I asked him to come to my baseball game.”

Non-sequiturs are Marvin’s least favorite mode of communication. “And?”

“ _And_ he wouldn’t come. Because I told him you’d be there.”

Marvin forces a laugh. “That doesn’t sound like—”

“ _Because_ he thought you wouldn’t want to see him.” Jason’s hands are on his hips, glaring at him. “So I know you screwed it up somehow.” He looks away again, crossing his arms over his chest, suddenly looking small and young. “You didn’t hit him, did you? Like you did Mom?”

Cordelia gasps behind him, and he whirls to see her staring at him with wide blue eyes. “Cordelia—”

“I should go,” she says shakily. “I’ll—I’ll see you later.”

“Cordelia, wait—”

She turns and walks out, the door shutting decisively behind her.

He turns back to Jason, who won’t look at him. “Kid, I…” This they _have_ talked about, if obliquely; he had owed Jason that much. But he’ll never finish paying for it, will he?

Not that he deserves otherwise, of course. Even he is self-aware enough to know that.

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I never hit Whizzer. And I never, ever should have hit your mom. I’m sorry, Jason.”

Jason shrugs. It’s a grace that Marvin doesn’t deserve but will gladly take.

“I’m sorry I never talked to you about what happened with Whizzer,” he adds after a moment. “And I’m sorry that… that it happened.”

Jason looks up at him, finally. “Sorry I was talking to Whizzer behind your back,” he offers.

Marvin laughs. “You know what? I’m not sorry about that at all.”

Finally, Jason grins at him. “Me either.”

* * *

With Jason settled in his room, playing some loud, angry video game that he’s sure Trina wouldn’t approve of but he doesn’t have the guts to disallow, Marvin goes to check on Whizzer.

He’s slumped on the couch, one arm curled against his chest, head tilted forward into a gap in the cushions. Marvin frowns; that can’t be good for his breathing. He starts forward, intending to shift him into a better position. But as he approaches, Whizzer’s eyes shoot open, and he scrambles back on the couch.

Marvin stops, hands raised, heart sinking down into his shoes. “Sorry,” he offers quietly.

Whizzer shakes his head, but he’s coughing too hard to say anything. Marvin turns to head back to the kitchen, to get him a glass of water, maybe make him some tea. Anything to put some distance between him and that look of immediate, instinctive fear.

“Wait,” Whizzer chokes out behind him. “Marvin—”

He turns back. Whizzer’s eyes are wide and bright, watching him with something he can’t quite identify. The coughing’s left him red-faced and gasping, breath rattling in his chest. He’s as beautiful as he’s always been, and how could Marvin have forgotten that look on his face, that pleading expression to not walk away?

All that time, he’d wanted so desperately to know that Whizzer cared. He would have taken any scrap of affection, any minuscule portion of love. And when it didn’t come, he’d tried to force it, and when that didn’t work, he’d ended it in despair.

And yet, when it was right in front of him, he hadn’t seen it, had he?

The water can wait. He goes to Whizzer’s side.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he rasps. “Where’s Jason?”

“In his room, playing a game.” Marvin looks at him steadily. “You should get some rest.”

“I’m alright.”

“You’re not.”

“Marvin…”

“Whizzer,” he mimics, fondly. “Come on. You’re exhausted—”

“I want to talk to you.” He’s all but pouting, arms crossed over his chest. It’s kind of adorable.

Marvin sits beside him on the couch, one arm curling automatically around Whizzer’s shoulders. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it until Whizzer tenses, and then, before he can withdraw his arm, the other man is leaning against him with a sigh, his body relaxing just like it used to into his hold. It’s so familiar, so _trusting_. How did he ever let this go?

“God, you’re warm,” Marvin says around the lump in his throat.

Whizzer coughs once. “So are you.”

“No, I’m serious,” Marvin says; even through his clothes, he can feel the prickling heat radiating off his body. “Do you need—”

“Marv, stop worrying,” Whizzer mumbles into his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Marvin looks down at him seriously. “I never stopped worrying about you.”

Whizzer coughs again. It seems to be his go-to response when he doesn’t know what to say.

Marvin sighs, picking at a loose thread in the couch with his free hand. “I have a lot to say to you.” Whizzer tenses, and he rubs gently at his shoulders. “Most of it apologies.”

He feels Whizzer shake his head. “You don’t need to apologize to me.”

“Don’t I?” says Marvin, raising an eyebrow. “Whizzer, I treated you like shit.”

Whizzer shrugs. “So did I.” He hesitates, coughs once. “Besides, I’m the one who may have given you…”

Jesus christ, he’d almost forgotten. He swallows, the fear hitting him all over again in a wave. “How long did it take to get your results?” he manages to ask after a moment.

Whizzer has tensed beside him. “Two weeks.”

So if he gets tested tomorrow, he still won’t know for another couple of weeks. Jesus. This is… too much. It’s too much.

“We should get you to bed,” he says, rising abruptly from the couch.

“But—”

“We can talk tomorrow,” he says, softening. “Okay? But you really need some sleep.”

“It’s barely nine,” Whizzer grumbles, but he stands, leveraging himself up with the arm of the couch. Then he stops, looking warily at Marvin. “Wait, where am I sleeping?”

“The bed. I’ll take the couch tonight.”

“No, Marvin, you don’t have to do that—”

“Come on, Whiz,” he says, tugging him over to the bedroom. “You’re sick, I’m not making you sleep on the couch. Besides, you don’t fit on it anyway.”

Whizzer laughs. “Your fault for not buying a bigger couch.”

“Your fault for being so freakishly tall.”

“I’m not that tall, you’re just short.”

“Well, you’ve got at least three extra inches of just hair, so—” They’ve reached the bedroom, and Marvin stops, smiling at him. God, he’s missed this. In between all the petty fights, the squabbling, later the shouting and slamming of doors, there had been moments like this, too. Just being together, just enjoying each other’s company. Whizzer used to smile at him like that, his warm eyes crinkling.

He clears his throat, looking away. “I’ll grab your suitcase.”

“Thanks,” Whizzer says quietly.

He waits until Whizzer is in the bathroom to change, wishing heartily he had something other than a pair of old, ratty sweatpants to wear to bed. Not that he’s trying to impress him, or anything—God knows he couldn’t if he tried—but at least it wouldn’t be quite so embarrassing. After a moment, he pulls on a T-shirt, too. No point traumatizing Jason in the morning if he wakes up for breakfast early.

Whizzer comes back in, still in his regular clothes. Of course, he probably doesn’t even own pajamas; he didn’t in their time together. A waste of fabric, he’d said: who was going to see it? For Whizzer, clothes were for showing off, not for comfort. It was probably why he was such a blanket hog; sleeping naked could get cold in the winter.

Not that Marvin had minded that part. He swallows.

Whizzer raises an eyebrow at him, and he realizes he’s staring. Right. He looks away, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Well, uh, good night.”

“Night, Marvin,” Whizzer says with an audible smile.

“If you need anything—”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Seriously,” Marvin says, looking up at him. “If you need anything, come get me.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Yes, _Dad_. Now shoo, I’m going to bed.” He pauses, a smirk stealing over his stupidly pretty face. “Unless you wanna tuck me in?”

Marvin flushes, despite knowing that’s exactly the reaction Whizzer is looking for. He can’t help it. “You’re the worst,” he grumbles.

Whizzer laughs, but it’s a nice laugh: affectionate, teasing but not mocking. “Good night, Marvin,” he says again.

Marvin smiles, stepping out into the hallway. “Good night.”

He pretends not to hear the coughing that echoes from behind the door as soon as he pulls it shut behind him.


	2. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter got long. Most likely future chapters will be a fair amount shorter. :)
> 
> Also, just gonna reiterate very strongly that I am not a doctor and, although I did lots and lots of research, it’s very likely that I got a lot wrong. For the most part, the medical knowledge I'm drawing on here is anecdotal and personal (and not AIDS-specific). Please feel free to let me know if you spot anything I should change.

With both Jason and Whizzer settled in for the night, he makes himself comfortable on the couch, grabbing a book from the side table to distract himself with. It isn’t long before his eyes get heavy, the stress and adrenaline of the day leaving him wrung out and drifting off, his book falling open on his chest.

He isn’t sure at first what wakes him—just that suddenly he’s sitting up, a hot spike of panic forcing him to his feet. And then he registers what he’s hearing: coughing, harsh and desperate, coming from the kitchen.

He walks over cautiously, intending to tell Whizzer to sit, that he’ll get him water or tea or whatever he needs. But one look at Whizzer’s bluing lips, his white-knuckled hold on the countertop as though it’s all that’s holding him up, and he rushes to his side to grab him before he can fall.

“Jesus christ,” he hisses, easing him down to sit on the tiled floor, “Whizzer, what—”

“Marv—” He’s wheezing, clawing at his throat, eyes wild with fear. “Can’t—breathe—”

“Oh jesus,” Marvin whispers. Whizzer’s chest is heaving with the effort to draw in breath, but it’s not working, _it’s not working_ , he can barely breathe and his eyes are rolling back and— “No no no no,” Marvin babbles as Whizzer’s head falls back against the cabinets behind them with a loud thump. He moves to sit behind him, arms encircling his body, cradling him as he shakes with the effort to just _breathe_. “Jason!” he shouts as Whizzer’s head lolls against his shoulder. “ _Jason!_ Call 911!”

Thank god for his kid, who can keep his head in a crisis. Even at 2 in the morning, just woken up by a panicked shout, Jason doesn’t ask questions—he runs out to the kitchen with his cell phone, eyes widening in terror at the sight of Whizzer unconscious in his father’s arms, but he’s calm and clear on the phone as he gives Marvin’s address to the dispatcher. It’s a good thing Whizzer does apparently own pajamas after all, Marvin thinks wildly. There’s only so much scarring his kid should have to take in one night.

Pounding on the door makes him jump, clutching Whizzer even tighter to his chest. Jason runs to it, but it’s too soon for the ambulance, so who—

“I heard shouting,” Charlotte says, “is everything—oh, shit.”

“You can say that again,” says Marvin shakily.

Charlotte rushes over to them, kneeling down beside Whizzer so fast he hears her knees bang against the tile. “How long has he been out?” she asks, reaching up to take his pulse. Even in her bonnet and silk nightgown, she’s the picture of professionalism.

“Maybe a minute,” Marvin guesses, “I’m not sure—”

“Call an ambulance,” she barks at Jason.

“Already did,” Jason says quickly. “What can I do, can I help—”

“Go get Cordelia,” she instructs him. She looks away from Whizzer for a moment to smile at him. “And good job, Jason. Thank you.”

Jason’s eyes fill with tears, but he nods bravely, then turns and runs next door.

“Okay, Marvin, I need you to keep him sitting upright, okay? That’s going to help his breathing, can you do that?”

“Yes—of course—” He’s panicking, he realizes distantly, his own breath catching in his throat. Charlotte looks at him steadily, mimes taking a deep breath. He follows her lead, trying not to feel the guilt washing over him that he can breathe just fine and _Whizzer can’t_.

Jason comes running back over, Cordelia right behind him. She’s carrying a pile of clothes: Charlotte’s, he realizes, as she hands them off to her. “Jason,” Charlotte says, standing, “I need you to go wait downstairs for the ambulance, okay? You’ll need to show the EMTs where to go. Can you do that for me?”

He nods fiercely, and Marvin’s never wanted to hug him more. How this kid he’s raised is so brave, so _good_ , he’ll never understand.

“Delia—” Charlotte starts, but just then Whizzer twitches, his eyes blinking open, and all of Marvin’s attention zeroes in on him.

“Hey, Whizzer,” he breathes, relief making his voice unsteady, “hey, you’re okay, can you hear me, you’re okay—”

“Whizzer, can you look up at me for a moment?” Charlotte interrupts. Whizzer turns to blink at her, still pulling in ragged breaths. “Good.” She’s knelt back down beside them, her hand steadying on Marvin’s shoulder. “I’m not going to ask you to talk, but I need to get an idea of how you’re feeling, alright? Can you show me with your hands?” She mimes a quick thumbs up, thumbs down.

He gives a shaky thumbs down. Charlotte nods, smiling reassuringly at him.

“Okay, that’s to be expected. Don’t worry, we’ve called an ambulance, so—”

“No,” Whizzer rasps.

She blinks, startled. “No?”

“No ambulance,” he says. His breathing is getting worse, Marvin notes with increasing panic.

“Okay, Whizzer, I need you to try to calm down right now,” Charlotte says. “Look at me, okay? We’re going to breathe together, alright?” She takes another deep, exaggerated breath, and Whizzer attempts to follow, though he can only hold it for a second or two at most. “You too, Marvin,” Charlotte adds, her eyes flicking to his face. “Help me set a good example, yeah?”

He’s never set a good example a day in his life, but he tries.

After a moment, Whizzer’s breathing is a little steadier, and Charlotte gets back to her feet, nodding at Cordelia as she hands the clothes back over. “I’m going to go get changed,” she says, turning to Marvin and Whizzer. “I’ll be going with you in the ambulance to make sure everything goes alright. You keep focusing on your breathing, okay? Just keep on taking those big breaths for me.”

Whizzer nods, pulling in as deep a breath as he can manage. Charlotte winks at him, then turns and heads into the bathroom to change.

Cordelia sits beside them on the kitchen floor, taking Whizzer’s hand in her own. “Don’t worry,” she says, her voice as bright and sure as ever. “Charlotte knows what she’s doing. She’ll take good care of you.”

Whizzer nods again, his hair brushing against Marvin’s chin. “Sorry,” he gasps out, between breaths.

Marvin’s arms tighten around him, then quickly loosen as he realizes that’s probably a bad idea. “Don’t talk,” he admonishes, grabbing Whizzer’s free hand instead. “Just keep breathing.” After a moment, he adds, “And you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Cordelia looks up at him, then quickly away.

Charlotte comes out of the bathroom just as Jason comes charging back down the hall, EMTs in tow. Everything after that is a blur: Charlotte talking rapidly to them about hypoxia and O2 saturation and other words he doesn’t understand, Whizzer being lifted onto a stretcher, Marvin following numbly as they wheel him down the hall into the elevators. At some point, it gets decided that Jason will stay back with Cordelia, but he doesn’t remember how or when. He thinks Jason protests, but he isn’t sure.

In the ambulance, Whizzer is given an oxygen mask and everyone flits around him while Marvin tries his best to stay out of the way. He almost wasn’t allowed to come—the EMTs had said there wasn’t room—but Whizzer had gotten so upset that Charlotte had intervened. She directs them what to do, tells them what hospital to go to, lets Marvin hold Whizzer’s hand once he’s as settled as they can get him. Marvin’s never been so utterly thankful to have someone to order him around.

At the hospital, he’s relegated to a waiting room while Whizzer is rushed off for tests and treatment and god only knows what. The moment he sits in one of the hard plastic chairs, he chokes up, burying his face in his hands so that no one will see. God, he thinks, jesus, this is too much, it’s too much, he can’t take it, it’s too much…

The ping of his phone shakes him from his spiral, and he pulls it out with unsteady hands.

It’s Jason: _how is he????_

Marvin takes a deep breath and lets it out, Charlotte’s voice echoing in his head. It’ll be doing that for weeks now, he thinks. _They’re taking care of him. I’m in the waiting room_ , he texts back. After a second, he adds, _Are you okay?_

_im fine dad r u????_

God, trust his kid to somehow make him even more emotional than he already is. _Yeah kiddo, I’m okay. Go to bed, we’ll talk in the morning._

_no txt me when you c him_

He sighs, hesitating over the phone’s keypad. It’s 3 in the morning and his son should be sleeping, but then again, if anyone deserves some leniency right now it’s Jason.

His phone pings again as he’s still deciding: _btw i talked 2 cordelia_

God, with everything else that’s happened, he’s forgotten all about the way Cordelia looked at him when she heard what he’d done to Trina. His stomach sours all over again, picturing her face. _Yeah?_

_yea i told her u only did it once and u were rlly sry after_

He rubs wearily at his forehead. _That doesn’t excuse it, Jason._

_she said that 2. but she seemed less upset abt it tho_

He’s trying to think of what to say in response when he hears Charlotte softly call his name. In an instant he’s on his feet, rushing over to where she stands in the doorway. “How is he? Can I see him?”

“He’s alright,” she says, smiling at him. “Come on, I’ll take you to him.”

Whizzer’s sitting up in the bed, or rather, the bed is elevated to keep him in a seated position. He’s wearing an oxygen mask, again or maybe still, an IV attached to his arm, his eyes brightening as he sees Marvin and Charlotte enter.

“Ah-ah!” Charlotte scolds from behind him as Whizzer goes to take off the mask to speak. “What have I told you? No taking that off!”

He grimaces, holding up his hands in surrender. Marvin laughs, pulling up a chair beside the bed. “Better not antagonize her when she’s in doctor mode,” he says, relief at seeing Whizzer awake and relatively okay making his heart feel light. God, when his head had fallen back—he pushes it from his mind. “Take it from one who knows.”

Whizzer smiles at him, raising an eyebrow in question. Marvin shakes his head, grinning. “A story for another time.”

“Alright,” Charlotte says, “I’m going to go check in on your lab results, Whizzer. Dr. Ramirez should be in to speak with you shortly.”

“Wait,” Marvin says, “you’re not treating him?”

“Technically, no. Since I know him through you, it’s not really ethical.”

“Didn’t stop Mendel,” Marvin mutters. Whizzer coughs a laugh through his mask.

“Well, I’m not Mendel,” Charlotte says with a smile, “but I’ll still be around if you need me, okay? Either of you.” She looks significantly at Marvin, who nods, too grateful for everything she’s done to do otherwise. “Get some rest,” she says to them both. “I’ll check in with you when I can.”

Marvin turns back to Whizzer, who’s watching him with something unreadable in his eyes. He sighs, grabbing Whizzer’s hand in his own. “You scared the shit out of me, you know,” he says.

Whizzer winces, raising his free hand to pull down the oxygen mask. “Sorry.”

Marvin rolls his eyes, letting go briefly of his hand to tug the mask back into place. “What did Charlotte tell you? Don’t touch that.”

Whizzer huffs, but he leaves it be, squeezing Marvin’s hand as he grabs for it again.

“You know,” Marvin says thoughtfully, “this seems like a rare opportunity.”

Whizzer raises his eyebrows.

“When else am I going to get to talk to you without you being able to say anything? No,” he adds quickly, as Whizzer goes to lift the mask again. “God, you’re worse than Jason. You’re worse than Jason _as a toddler_.”

Whizzer, proving his point, sticks his tongue out at him.

“Shit, speaking of Jason.” He fishes in his pocket for his phone, where he’d stuck it hastily upon seeing Charlotte. “I told him I’d text him when I got to see you.”

Whizzer makes a beckoning gesture, and, bemused, Marvin hands the phone over. Then he remembers the conversation he’d just been having, still up on the screen, and winces.

Whizzer doesn’t say anything about it, though, just types rapidly on his phone, handing it back once he’s done. Marvin looks down at the message: _hey jason its whizzer! im [image of hand making an okay sign] go to bed!!!!_

Marvin makes a face. “I _know_ you can type better than that.”

Whizzer laughs. He gestures again for the phone, and Marvin hands it back with a sigh. He types something else, then shoves it back at him. _ps ur dad is just as stuck up as ever_

“I’m not stuck up, I just think proper grammar should be—ohmygod, just keep it then, would you?” he exclaims as Whizzer grabs the phone back.

_hes criticizing my grammar cn u believe_

“Well, at least you can spell ‘criticizing,’ anyway—ow!” Whizzer’s smacked him lightly with the phone. “Jeez,” he huffs, “fine, just teach my son all your bad habits.”

Whizzer opens a new chat on his phone. _thats the plan sweetheart_

“Ugh, so much for you not talking,” Marvin gripes, smiling despite himself. He’s got to be feeling better if he’s calling him “sweetheart.”

The phone pings, and Marvin grabs for it, ignoring Whizzer’s pout as he pulls it from his hand. _whizzer!!!! glad ur ok!!!!_ Another ping: _sry bout my dad tho!!!!_ Another: _he gets worse when hes worried tbh_ And finally: _he was rlly scared. n i was 2_

He hands the phone back to Whizzer, whose face draws tight as he reads the texts, then types out what seems like a long response.

Finally, he hands it back to Marvin: _rlly sorry i scared u, kid. and ur dad too. but dont worry, ok? im good now, promise. ill see u real soon so u can see for urself. but u gotta get some sleep first ok?_

Marvin smiles down at the phone, then quickly types his own message: _Hey, sometimes Whizzer knows what he’s talking about. Get some sleep, kiddo. We’ll see you soon._

The response is almost immediate: _ok ok. night dad! night whizzer! [image of a heart]_

Marvin texts back a heart (he’s pretty proud of himself for finding it so fast), then hands the phone off to Whizzer so he can do the same.

 _hes a good kid_ , Whizzer types into the other chat on his phone. _i missed him._

“He missed you too,” Marvin says quietly. He looks down at his hands, braced on the hospital bed. “And… so did I.”

A pause, then hurried tapping. He doesn’t look up until Whizzer shoves the phone in his face: _i missed you too._

Marvin smiles ruefully. “We fucked up, didn’t we?”

Whizzer shrugs. _we were fucked from the start._

That’s not true, Marvin wants to say, but… well, it is, isn’t it? They’d met while he was still married, fucked while his wife and child waited up for him to come home, then screamed their way through his divorce and its aftermath until all that building pressure had broken over one stupid chess game. All of that pain, all of that heartbreak: that’s what their relationship had been built on. Lies and anger, from the start.

But he wants it back anyway. God, he wants it back so much.

He looks over at Whizzer, who’s not looking at him, fiddling nervously with the phone. Neither of them having anything to say: that’s certainly a first. Maybe the first step for them is going to have to be learning how to talk to each other when there’s no screaming or screwing going on.

Starting, maybe, with him, here and now. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. It hurts less than he thought it would to force it out.

Whizzer looks up at him, startled. _sorry for what?_

He gestures helplessly. “All of it.”

To his surprise, Whizzer looks away, his face clouding. There’s a moment of quiet as he types out his response: _it wasnt all bad._

Marvin laughs, even as a flicker of hope rises in his chest. “Whizzer, you’re the one who just said it was fucked up.”

 _well, it was. but still._ He shifts awkwardly in the bed, knocking the oxygen mask slightly out of place.

Marvin reaches up to fix it, Whizzer watching him with that same unreadable look. “But still,” he agrees quietly, tucking the strap back behind his ear. And then, knowing it’s a bad idea but helpless to stop himself, he presses a kiss to Whizzer’s forehead, cupping the side of his face just like he used to back when this was something he was allowed to do.

That’s when the doctor comes in.

Marvin pulls back hastily, catching for one brief moment the expression on Whizzer’s face: something like hope, something like heartbreak, something a lot like Marvin is feeling himself. And then he blinks and it’s gone.

“Hello,” the doctor says, pulling up a chair on the other side of the bed. He holds out a hand for Whizzer to shake, then Marvin. “I’m Doctor Ramirez. Can you tell me what happened?”

Whizzer gestures wryly to the mask, and the doctor laughs. “Yes, that does pose a problem. Would you be okay with your partner telling me?”

 _His partner?_ Marvin thinks, for one heartbreaking second. _He has a partner?_ And then he realizes with a start that the doctor means him. He looks at Whizzer, who just shrugs. Well, if he’s not going to correct him…

“He was coughing pretty bad all night,” Marvin says. “And then I heard him in the kitchen, so I went to check on him, and he passed out. My son called an ambulance, Charlotte came over, and now…” He gestures at Whizzer, who’s watching him with wide eyes. It’s possible that he said that with a little more emotion than he meant to.

“Did he hit his head when he fell?”

He winces, remembering the thud. “Yes.”

Whizzer reaches up to touch the back of his head, like he’s checking for a bump.

The doctor turns to him, pulling a small pen light from his coat pocket. “Alright, Whizzer—it’s Whizzer, correct?” Whizzer nods. “I’m going to take a look at your eyes for a moment. Try not to blink.” He shines the light in Whizzer’s eyes, then holds out his index finger and makes him follow its movement for an odd moment. “No concussion,” he says finally, putting the pen light back. “At least that’s one less thing to worry about.” He winks.

“Charlotte said it might be pneumonia,” Marvin says. “The coughing, and the whole…  breathing thing.”

“Dr. DuBois is, as usual, right on the money,” Dr. Ramirez agrees. “The official name for it is pneumocystis jirovecii pneumonia, otherwise known as PCP. It’s something we see most often in patients who are immunocompromised, either from medications they’re taking or from other conditions.” He pushes his glasses up his nose, regarding Whizzer kindly. “We don’t seem to have much medical history for you, Whizzer. Are you taking any medications, or do you have any medical conditions, that I should know about? That you maybe haven’t disclosed to the nurses?”

Whizzer looks down, avoiding the doctor’s eyes. He nods, once.

“Are you HIV positive?” the doctor asks gently.

Whizzer looks up at Marvin pleadingly. “Yes,” Marvin answers for him. “He just found out.”

Dr. Ramirez nods, his expression sympathetic. “I know that can be hard to hear,” he says to Whizzer. “Have you begun treatment?”

Whizzer shakes his head.

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do,” says Dr. Ramirez, standing to move over to the computer in the corner of the room. “We’re going to get the PCP under control first, with this nifty little drug called Bactrim. Now, it’s possible that you might notice some itching or a rash developing once you start taking it; you let me or the nurses know if it gets too bad. While you’re starting on that, we’re going to check your CD4 count and see what we’re dealing with there. A CD4 count,” he explains, moving back towards the bed, “is an indication of how your immune system is holding up. Since HIV attacks your immune system, it’s likely that yours will be on the low side. But we’re going to get you started on some medication for that, too, which will help bring it up, and help you fight off this infection as well.” He stops, taking in the blank look on Whizzer’s face. “I know this sounds like a lot right now,” he says kindly. “But the important thing is, we’re going to get it all sorted out.”

Whizzer nods, tentatively. He opens his mouth to speak, then gives a frustrated grimace as he remembers the mask. Marvin gestures at the phone and he grabs it: _how long?_

“Treatment?” Ramirez asks. “You’ll be on the Bactrim for around three weeks. We’ll keep you here for some of that time just to make sure everything is going the direction we want, then you’ll take the rest of it at home. As for HIV treatment, we’ll get the particulars of that sorted out once we’re sure of what we’re looking at here. But that will be something you take for the rest of your life.”

Whizzer nods politely, then taps again at the phone. As he holds it up, Marvin can feel his blood running cold: _how long to live?_

The doctor nods, his face serious. He sits again in the chair, pulling it up close to the bed. “I’m not going to lie to you, Whizzer,” he says, “this is a serious condition. We’re going to do some tests to be sure, but generally speaking PCP is considered an AIDS-defining infection.”

Marvin chokes, and the doctor looks over at him, his face softening. “ _But_ ,” he continues, “that doesn’t mean what it used to. Most people with AIDS now live just as long as the general population. Once we get you the proper medication, you should be fine as long as you take it regularly and take good care of yourself.”

“So—he’ll be okay?” Marvin blurts out. “He’ll—it’ll get better?”

The doctor smiles at him. “I can’t promise anything, of course, but I have reasonable expectations.”

Whizzer holds up the phone again: _how long here?_

“We’ll need to see how you respond to the treatment first before we can say for sure. Best case scenario is a couple of days, assuming everything goes well.”

Marvin nods, and Whizzer sets down the phone, looking overwhelmed.

“Get some rest,” the doctor advises. “We’ll be admitting you into the hospital proper as soon as we can.”

He gets up, but Whizzer grabs for the phone again, looking suddenly frantic. _contagious???_

“God, Whizzer, as if I care,” Marvin snaps before the doctor can say anything.

But Ramirez shakes his head. “It can be, but generally only to those who are immunocompromised themselves, and rather severely at that.” He looks at Marvin questioningly.

“I-I don’t know yet,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to get tested.”

Ramirez nods. “I’ll get you an appointment here, if you like,” he says. “I’ll make sure they get the results to you as soon as possible. Of course, if you’re not sure, there is the possibility that Whizzer is correct and you could catch this from him.”

“I don’t care,” he says again. He turns to Whizzer, who looks frustrated and exhausted and some potent mix of angry and touched. “I’m staying right here.”

Whizzer types quickly: _stubborn ass_

Marvin laughs. “You’re one to talk.”

Ramirez clears his throat. “Assuming the worst-case scenario here—which is unlikely, but not impossible—we would also start you on the same medication as Whizzer. That should protect you against the infection if it comes to it.”

Whizzer holds up the phone: _jason?_

“My son,” Marvin clarifies to Ramirez.

“No, as I said, the only real risk is for someone with a suppressed immune system. Your son should be just fine.” He waits a moment, but Whizzer just nods, settling back against the bed. “Well, if you have no more questions, I’ll see you gentlemen in the morning,” he says. “Or, later this morning, as it were,” he corrects himself, grimacing at his watch.

“Thank you,” Marvin says quietly.

Ramirez smiles at him. “Try not to worry too much,” he says to them both. “We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”

As soon as he leaves, Marvin leans back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling. His head feels heavy and sore, still buzzing with all of the information Ramirez spouted at them. He’s not even sure where to begin on how to process—“Ow!”

Whizzer’s thrown the phone at him, smacking him hard in the chest. He looks down at it: _go home and get some sleep dumbass_

Marvin glares at him. “What part of ‘I’m staying’ did you not understand?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, gesturing impatiently for the phone. Marvin raises his eyebrows.

“Should have thought of that before you threw it at me,” he says, holding it tauntingly out of reach. What can he say, Whizzer brings out the kid in him.

But Whizzer shrugs. “Fine,” he says, pulling off the mask, “I’ll just—”

“Jesus christ, okay, jesus, here,” he says, tossing the phone in his lap. “Keep that damn thing on, christ.”

Whizzer laughs, readjusting the mask, but there’s something else in his eyes, too. Something slow and thoughtful, as he watches Marvin anxiously watching him.

 _i really scared you, didnt i?_ he types.

“Yeah,” Marvin chokes out. “Yeah, you did.”

Whizzer’s mouth twists, his eyes soft and sad and warm. _im sorry._

Marvin shrugs. “Just don’t ever do it again,” he says, only half joking.

_ill try my best._

There’s a moment of quiet, both of them unsure what to say. Marvin is trying to think of the last time he saw Whizzer sick and coming up blank: he can’t even remember him having so much as a cold. It’s strange to think that, all told, they’ve been apart now longer than they’d ever been together. Those ten months were so charged, so all-consuming, that he often forgets how short a time it really was.

He glances back up to see Whizzer blinking heavily, his grip slackening on the phone in his hand. God, he must be exhausted, Marvin thinks with a rush of guilt. He’s not even sure what time it is anymore: 4 AM? 5?

Noticing him looking, Whizzer snaps back awake, shifting a little more upright in the bed. _so how long have you known charlotte?_ he types, shifting his jaw in a way that suggests he’s biting back a yawn.

Marvin smiles, taking his hand in his own. This he has seen before: Whizzer exhausted but too stubborn to sleep, grasping for any conversation topic he can think of to keep awake as long as possible. He used to find it annoying, especially when he had work in the morning or Whizzer was drunk or both. Now he wonders what Whizzer was trying so hard to avoid. Bad dreams? Boredom? Or was he just trying to hold on to a quiet moment, a moment of closeness, for as long as he could?

“I met them when I moved into the new place,” he says, keeping his voice pitched low. He runs his thumb gently over the back of Whizzer’s hand, watching in satisfaction as his eyelids start to droop again almost immediately. “They came over to introduce themselves the second day I was there. Cordelia—she’s the blonde one, you haven’t really met her yet—had made a batch of brownies, and I thought oh no, she’s not trying to hit on the hot single dad next door here, is she?” He waggles his eyebrows to emphasize the hot single dad bit, and Whizzer huffs a tired laugh. “But then she came in—invited herself in, really—and the way Charlotte looked at her as she followed… well.” He clears his throat, swallowing back what he’d felt so clearly then: that that had been exactly how he’d looked at Whizzer, when he’d done something mildly inappropriate but Marvin couldn’t help but think him adorable as he did it. “Anyway. So I kind of guessed that they were, you know… not interested, and then Charlotte called Cordelia her wife, so that made it pretty clear.” Whizzer smiles a little, which twists into a yawn. Marvin continues stroking his hand, watching as his eyes flutter.

“Anyway, Cordelia wanted me to try the brownies right then and there, but thankfully Charlotte thought to check if I was allergic to anything first. You should have seen Cordelia’s face fall when I said peanuts. Turns out they were peanut butter brownies, and she nearly started crying about how she could have killed me if Charlotte wasn’t there. I tried explaining I wasn’t _that_ allergic, but she was too worked up to listen to me.”

Whizzer’s hand has gone slack in his, his eyes fallen shut. Marvin smiles, finishing quietly, “So I got her a drink, and that’s how we all got drunk together and became very good friends.” Also, coincidentally, how they’d first learned about Whizzer, because Marvin was a sappy drunk when he wasn’t an angry one and he’d been feeling Whizzer’s absence keenly, those first few days living somewhere new. But, asleep or not, he’s hardly going to share that with _him_.

“And the next day Cordelia dropped off some peanut-free brownies for me, and they were terrible,” he adds, gently lowering Whizzer’s hand to the bed. “So it’s lucky I couldn’t try them in front of her, really.”

“You left out the part where you kept telling us how you’d never had lesbians for friends before,” comes Charlotte’s voice from behind him, making him jump. “I think you must have said it at least six different times just that night alone.”

“Jesus, scare a guy, will you,” Marvin hisses, as she walks over into his line of sight. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Just heard the part about the brownies. They weren’t _that_ bad,” she adds loyally.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “You begged me to dump out what she’d left in the pan in my trash, so she wouldn’t see it in yours.”

She blushes. “Yes, well, anyway.” She pulls up the chair next to him, dropping into it with a groan.

“Long night?”

“As long as yours,” she points out, glancing at Whizzer. Then she turns back to him, her face serious. “We need to talk.”

Marvin sighs, rubbing at his eyes. She’s right: it’s been a long goddamn night. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” she says, “because you’re only here on my say, and I need to know right now if you should be.”

“What does that mean?”

“A lot of things.” She leans forward to look him in the eye. “Cordelia told me what Jason said.”

Oh, god. “Is that what this is about? You think I’m going to hit him?” His voice cracks on the word _hit_ ; he can’t help it. That anyone could think… But they have the right to, of course, he reminds himself yet again. After all, he never thought he’d hit Trina, either. Maybe she’s right to worry.

“Honestly?” Charlotte says, breaking his reverie. “No, I don’t. I would never have let you in here in the first place if I did. But I want to hear it from you anyway.”

“I’d never hurt him,” he says firmly. He doesn’t think he’s ever meant anything as much.

“Good,” she says. She hesitates, then adds, “I think Cordelia might need a little more than that, though.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“Thank you.” She smiles at him, then glances quickly again at Whizzer. “One other thing.” She hesitates, then plunges on quickly, “Look, I’m a doctor, I can guess what’s going on here.”

“Charlotte—”

“I’m not asking you to say anything,” she says in a rush. “In fact, don’t. Just—just reassure me that you’re going to take care of yourself.”

“I’ve talked to Dr. Ramirez,” he says. “I’m working it out with him.”

“Good. Good. Just don’t—”

“What else?” he interrupts. He loves Charlotte, honestly, but she is the last person on earth he wants to have this conversation with right now.

“Right,” she says, composing herself. She smiles apologetically at him. “I just came in to take off the oxygen mask, really. And to—talk.”

“Take off the mask?” Marvin repeats, frowning. “But… is that safe?”

“It’s very safe,” she says gently. “He'll likely be undergoing oxygen therapy during his stay here, but for now, his saturation levels have risen enough that we can remove it for the moment. And if they drop again, those monitors will let us know immediately.” She watches him for a moment, taking in what he knows must be a rather sorry sight by this point. “You should go home,” she says. “Get some rest.”

“No. I’m staying here.”

“Marvin... ”

He looks up at her, a challenge in his eyes. Her mouth twists, but she lets it go: she knows him well enough to know what battles she can’t win.

Instead she stands, brushing down her lab coat. “Alright. But promise me you’ll at least take a good long nap tomorrow.”

He laughs, trying not to notice how close it comes to a sob. “Promise.”

She smiles, then turns to Whizzer, maneuvering him gently to lift the mask off his face. Marvin watches carefully, but he doesn’t wake, even as Charlotte sets him back against the pillows. Either he’s not as light a sleeper anymore as he used to be, or he’s just that exhausted; he doesn’t even twitch when the door shuts behind her.

Sighing, he leans forward against the bed, resting his head in his hands. He’s too wound up to sleep, but his eyes are burning with fatigue, and his head is all but pounding with the aftershocks of everything that’s happened today. He keeps seeing that moment in the kitchen, over and over again: Whizzer’s blue lips, his head falling back, his chest heaving for breath he couldn’t catch… God. He looks up again, taking in the sight of Whizzer sound asleep, his head dipped toward him. His breathing does sound better, he notes. Still heavy and rasping, but not the wheezing gasp for air it was before. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get that sound out of his head.

He lowers his head onto the bed, closing his eyes for just a moment. He’s just going to rest them for a second while he listens to Whizzer’s breathing… make sure he doesn’t need anything… just in case…

* * *

He wakes with a start to a hand in his hair and a voice softly calling his name. He blinks, pulling himself upright with an effort. “Wha—what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Whizzer says, amused. Marvin looks up at him blearily: he’s sitting up, smiling at him, wearing a nasal cannula in place of the oxygen mask. There’s a nurse at his side, also smiling, a clipboard in her hand. He blinks at them both.

“What’s going on?”

Whizzer starts to answer but is cut off by a cough, so the nurse answers for him: “We’re going to move Whizzer here onto the floor.”

“The floor?” What, are they going to shove him off the bed?

“Into the main part of the hospital,” the nurse explains. Oh. That makes more sense.

He could really use some coffee.

“Jason texted you,” Whizzer rasps, having finally stopped coughing. “Cordelia’s bringing him over. I told him to bring you some clothes.”

Marvin looks down at himself: he’s still wearing the T-shirt and ratty sweatpants from last night. He makes a face, running a hand self-consciously through his hair. “Thanks.”

“Not that your regular clothes are much better—”

Marvin goes to swat him, but stops abruptly, his hand frozen awkwardly in mid-air. _You think I'm going to hit him?_

He lowers his hand to his side.

Whizzer’s grin is sliding into a frown. “You okay, Marvin?” He’s rubbing at his chest like it hurts him, and Marvin shakes himself, trying to brush off the sleepiness still clinging to him and muddling up his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m—what about you, are you alright?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “I’m fine.” He holds out the phone to him. “Here, talk to your son.”

Marvin takes it, thumbing through absently to his messages from Jason. Whizzer’s been texting with him for a little while, it looks like, while Marvin was out; he’s shocked that he managed to sleep through so much.

Whizzer starts to cough again, and Marvin looks up at him, feeling his face pinch in worry. The nurse pats his shoulder, disconnecting him from the monitors. “You can go ahead and take a seat in the waiting room,” she says to Marvin. “We’ll let you know once he’s settled.”

“I can’t come with?” The thought of being separated from Whizzer right now is painful in a way he doesn’t want to examine.

The nurse shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says cheerfully, “but we need some time to get him all hooked back up.”

“It’s fine, Marvin,” Whizzer says, his cough dying down. “Go find Jason, he should be here soon. And get changed.”

“It’s always about the clothes for you, isn’t it,” Marvin says with a sigh. “Alright, fine, I’m going. Just—” He wants to say something stupid, like _take care of him_ or _help him_ or _don’t let him die, please_. But the nurse is watching him impatiently, like he’s in the way, and Whizzer needs medicine and monitors and medical equipment a hell of a lot more than he needs Marvin’s inane words right now. So he goes.

Off the waiting room there is, thank god, a vending machine that dispenses coffee, which he chugs while waiting for Jason and Cordelia. He doesn’t have too long to wait: Jason comes barreling down the hall so fast he barely has time to put down his coffee before his kid is wrapping him in a tight hug. He’ll blame it on the lack of sleep if anyone asks, but his eyes start to burn as he hugs his son back.

Cordelia stands a little to the side, watching them awkwardly. He clears his throat, taking a step back from Jason. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she says. She’s once again holding a pile of clothes, which she proffers at him as Jason plops into one of the waiting room chairs. “Jason picked these out for you.”

“I tried to find you something that wasn’t a hoodie,” Jason says, which is a bit rich coming from him, since he’s wearing a hoodie himself. “I know Whizzer’s sick and all, but I didn’t want him to puke.”

Marvin rolls his eyes, taking the pile. “Thanks, Jason,” he says dryly. More sincerely, he adds, “Thank you, Cordelia.”

She shrugs. And then, to his surprise, she hugs him.

“We still need to talk about it,” she says, pulling back after a moment with a self-conscious laugh. “But… I know you’re a good person, Marvin. I’m sorry I overreacted.”

“You didn’t,” he says, his throat tight. “But thank you.” He takes a breath, looking around for the bathroom. “I’ll just go change then, shall I?”

“Then we can go see Whizzer?” asks Jason, swinging his legs under the chair.

“We have to wait for the nurse to come get us,” he says. “I don’t know how long that will be.”

“How is he doing?” Cordelia says softly.

“He’s…” He stops, unsure what to say. Okay? Better? Not going to die, at least? “A trooper,” he settles on, then immediately cringes at himself. Since when does he talk like a ‘50s-era conservative grandpa? Or, more to the point, his dad?

Cordelia just nods, looking sympathetic. Jason pulls out his Switch.

He goes to the bathroom to change, bundling up his old clothes to go throw in the car when he’s done. He pulls on the jeans Jason brought him, and bless the kid: he’s chosen a long-sleeved, green checkered shirt that Marvin’s hardly ever worn but knows he looks good in. He even tucks it in the way Whizzer kept trying to teach him, before he gave up on him altogether.

There’s no comb, so he does what he can with his hair and walks back out to the waiting room. Cordelia whistles, looking him over. “Nicely done, Jason. Looking good.” She winks at him. “I’m sure Whizzer will appreciate it.”

“Yes, well,” he stammers. Jason rolls his eyes, not even bothering to look up from his game to do it. “I’m just going to go throw this in the car,” he says, holding up the bundle of old clothes. Cordelia nods, tossing him the keys.

On his way back from the garage, he stops at the reception desk, grateful that neither Jason nor Cordelia can see him from where they’re sitting. The woman behind the counter looks up at him with palpable disinterest. “Yes?”

“I, uh,” he starts, his fingers drumming nervously at his side, “I’m supposed to have an appointment? For a test?”

“Name?”

“Marvin Rosenfeld. It’s with Dr. Ramirez. Or he set it up, anyway.”

“What’s the test for?” she drones, typing without looking up at him.

“Uh…,” he says, lowering his voice with a quick glance around, “for, uh, for HIV.” He clears his throat, rubbing compulsively at his thigh.

“I don’t see anything under your name,” the woman says. Finally, she looks up at him, eyes dull behind her glasses. “Would you like to make an appointment?”

“No, I—are you sure there’s nothing there?” Actually, now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure he ever gave the doctor his name. “I came in with Whizzer Brown, can you check under him?”

She turns dutifully back to the keyboard. “Whizzer Brown,” she says after a moment, “Room 707.” Well, it’s good to know what room he’s in, anyway. “Ah, there is a note here. Are you his partner?” For the first time, she looks mildly interested in him.

“Sorta,” he says uncomfortably. “Kinda.” No, but she doesn’t need to know that.

She turns back to the keyboard and he hears a printer whirring to life. “Fill out these forms,” she says, handing them to him. Then she frowns, looking back at the screen. “And these ones, too,” she adds, grabbing another stack.

“What are those for?”

“Whizzer Brown. We don’t seem to have his insurance information on file.”

“I don’t know his insurance information,” he admits.

“Then get him to do it,” she says, already turning away from him in dismissal. “And tell the nurses from me to do their damn jobs when they intake a patient.”

“Right, I’ll be sure to do that,” he mutters, grabbing a pen from the cup on the desk. Someone’s taped hideously garish fake flowers on them, which he entirely resents.

He heads back over to Jason and Cordelia, both of whom are looking bored and antsy already. At least Jason brought something to do.

He fills out the paperwork quickly, or at least the portion that has to do with him. He returns it to the receptionist, who takes it without a word, then watches him carefully as he puts her flower pen back in its cup. Like he was going to steal that monstrosity.

Then it’s back to waiting. Cordelia gets up at one point, muttering something about seeing if Charlotte is off her rounds yet. But she returns quickly, looking discouraged.

All told, by the time a nurse calls his name, he’s starting to nod off in the chair. So for a moment it doesn’t register that she’s called _his_ name and not Whizzer’s.

“Wait, Jason,” he says, mouth dry, as his son eagerly goes to put down his game. “Let me go first.”

Cordelia looks at him, her brow pinched. But she puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder as he starts to complain, nodding at Marvin to go ahead.

He follows the nurse through a labyrinth of hallways, ending at last in a tiny closet of a room that she promises is a lab. “I know it’s a little cramped,” she says, smiling at his raised eyebrows. “But it gets the job done.”

She has him sit on yet another version of the plastic waiting room chairs, this time with a cushioned armrest that he gladly leans on. “How are you with the sight of blood?” she asks, pulling on gloves.

He shrugs. “Fine.”

“Good.” She pulls out an alcohol swab, which she rubs quickly over his index finger. “So what we’re going to do here is called a rapid HIV test,” she says, grabbing a small plastic lancet from a drawer in front of her. “I’m going to prick your finger with this,” she gestures with the lancet, “and then I’m going to deposit some of your blood in this.” She holds up a strip of plastic that looks like nothing more than a pregnancy test. “It should give me an idea of your status within about twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes?” he repeats, his voice cracking. “I thought it took at least two weeks.”

She shakes her head. “That’s a lab test. If your initial results are reactive, we’ll do that next just to make absolutely sure. But Dr. Ramirez wanted a quick test first.” She stops, looking at him. “I understand your partner is HIV positive?”

“He’s…” No one here is making this easy for him, are they? “He’s not really…”   

She shakes her head. “Let me rephrase. When was the last time you were sexually active?”

“Too long,” Marvin says without thinking. She smiles, not quite impatiently. “If you mean with Whizzer, about a year and a half ago.”

To her credit, she doesn’t react at all to that, just nods. “And other sexual partners?”

God, does he really have to say this? “Six months,” he mumbles. Not that he hasn’t _tried_. Or, well, okay, he hasn’t really. It’s just… no one’s been interesting enough. Not for ages.

“Good,” she says unexpectedly. He stares at her, and she laughs a little, picking the lancet back up. “I mean, that’s good for your results. If they come back negative, we’ll know that they really are negative, not just too soon to tell.” He feels a prick in his finger and looks down; she’s gone ahead and stuck him with the lancet while he wasn’t looking. “Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s easier when you’re distracted.”

“Sure,” he mutters. “Whatever works.”

She finishes up the test quickly, then carefully bandages his finger. “Very important to keep that covered,” she instructs him. “Whatever your results. You don’t want any risk of contracting anything here in a hospital.” Or passing it on, she doesn’t say.

Finished, she peels off the gloves, washing her hands thoroughly in the sink. “You can head back to the waiting room,” she says over her shoulder. “You’ll know as soon as we have the results.”

He’s not entirely sure he knows how to get back to the waiting room on his own, but he goes, taking a moment to lean against the wall and just breathe somewhere around the third turn. Twenty minutes. That’s… it’s not a lot of time. Just yesterday he’d had no idea that he might be sick, and now he’s got just twenty minutes of uncertainty before the hammer comes down for good. He hasn’t even had a chance to go on WebMD yet.

He makes it back to the waiting room eventually, where Jason and Cordelia are looking even more fidgety than they were before he left. “Come on,” he says to them; if he has to sit here and wait around for the next twenty minutes in restless, uncomfortable silence, he’s certain he’ll go insane. “He’s in Room 707.” At least the receptionist was good for something. Which reminds him to grab the paperwork off the chair where he left it.

As he does, Jason looks up, jabbing at a button on the Switch to turn it off. He frowns, looking at Marvin’s hand. “Why’ve you got a band-aid on?”

Marvin’s mouth goes dry. “Papercut,” he manages after a long moment.

Jason looks skeptical, but he doesn’t push it. Marvin ignores the confusion on Cordelia’s face, heading purposefully for the elevators.

Room 707 is, thankfully, close enough to the elevators that he can pass it off like he knows where he’s going. The door is open, and there’s no one in the nearer bed, so he leads his small troupe in and pulls back the curtain on the bed by the window.

Whizzer looks like he was about to fall asleep, but he blinks awake in a hurry at the sight of them. Which is good, because: “Whizzer!” Jason exclaims, launching himself at the bed.

Whizzer grins, even as he winces at the impact. “Hey, Jason!”

Marvin clears his throat, and Whizzer looks up at him. Then raises his eyebrows, giving him a very deliberate once-over. “Nice shirt, Marv,” he murmurs.

Jason preens. “I picked it out.”

“Well, at least one of you has taste.” Which isn’t at all fair; who does he think bought the shirt in the first place?

“I told him he couldn’t wear a hoodie because I didn’t want you to puke,” Jason adds.

“Ha!” Whizzer raises a hand for a high five, grinning, which Jason gladly gives. “Good one, kid.”

Jason flushes, proud of himself. Marvin tries to frown, but he knows there’s a smile lurking in his eyes. He shakes himself before it can show on his face. “Whizzer, this is Cordelia,” he says, wrapping an arm around her waist. “She’s Charlotte’s wife.”

“Nice to meet you!” she says, waving a little.

Whizzer smiles at her. “You’re the one who brought Marvin brownies.”

Marvin blinks. “I didn’t think you’d remember that,” he says, just as Cordelia says, delighted, “He told you about that?” She squeezes Marvin with the arm she’s thrown around his side, making him wince. “I can make you some, too, if you want!”

Whizzer takes the opportunity to cough. Jason grimaces, leaning away from the noise.

“I make a mean chicken soup, too,” Cordelia offers more quietly. “I know the food they serve here isn’t always the greatest.”

Whizzer makes a face, though Marvin’s not sure if it’s directed at the hospital food or the offer of soup. “Thanks,” is all he says, though, as he leans back against the pillows, looking wrung out and weary and sick.

But for all Jason’s perceptiveness, he’s still a kid, as is made only too clear as he launches into a stream of chatter that Whizzer does his best to keep up with. After a moment, Cordelia excuses herself, murmuring quietly to Marvin that she’s going to go check in on Charlotte again. Marvin himself puts down the paperwork on the end table by the window, then pulls up the chair to the side of the bed, lowering himself into it with a sigh.

Whizzer looks up at him, over Jason’s head. He frowns, his eyes darting over his face. _You okay?_ he mouths.

Marvin nods, plastering on a smile. The last thing Whizzer needs right now is to be worrying about him.

Whizzer doesn’t look reassured, but he lets it go, allowing his attention to be drawn back to Jason. He’s now explaining some video game in painful detail, something about flying buses and storms and weapons caches. Marvin wonders mournfully what ever happened to a good old game of chess.

It’s not long before Cordelia returns, this time with Charlotte in tow. She immediately looks up at the monitors, and Marvin nearly gives himself an aneurysm trying to interpret her facial expressions before she turns and smiles at him. “Looking alright,” she says quietly, “all things considered.” He breathes a sigh of relief, then frowns at her.

“You look exhausted.”

“So do you,” she says with a laugh. “So does he. It might be a good idea to head out soon, let him get some rest.”

He doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s right; as much as he might want to, hovering over Whizzer all day isn’t going to help him get better, especially not when they’re keeping him awake. And coffee or no coffee, he’s flagging, and he knows it.

But he can’t go anywhere until—

“Ah, the gang’s all here!” says Dr. Ramirez, stepping into the room.

Now that it’s not the middle of the night and he’s not running on pure adrenaline and panic, Marvin takes in for the first time how handsome the doctor is. Not quite his type—he tends to like his men clean-shaven, for a start, and Ramirez has a neatly trimmed beard framing his thin pink lips—but certainly attractive. He looks away, at Whizzer, who to his surprise is looking at him. _What?_ he mouths, but Whizzer shakes his head, his eyes dark.

Not noticing the sudden tension, the doctor heads over to the computer in the corner of the room, scanning the screen quickly before turning to smile at Whizzer. “How are we feeling?”

“Fine,” Whizzer says shortly.

“Any itching or rash?”

Whizzer shrugs. “That’s a yes,” Marvin interprets for him.

The doctor looks over at him, raising an eyebrow playfully. “We should keep you around,” he says. “You can translate for the stubborn ones.”

Whizzer coughs pointedly. Ramirez turns back to him, his smile softening. “I’ll have them give you some antihistamines for the rash,” he says. “They might make you a little drowsy, but they should keep the itching down. And the more sleep you can get right now, the better, anyway.”

Whizzer doesn’t look at all happy about this, but the itching must be really bothering him, because he just nods.

The doctor types something rapidly on the computer, then turns to Marvin. “Will you follow me for a moment?”

All the air seems to go out of the room. Marvin nods tightly, ignoring the way everyone else is looking at him in surprise. Especially Whizzer, who’s glancing between him and the doctor with something bordering on suspicion.

“Be right back,” he croaks at them. Ramirez leads him out into the corridor.

He expects to be taken into a room, somewhere he can sit, but instead the doctor simply stops outside the door, nearly causing Marvin to crash into him. He checks quickly to make sure there’s no one around, then says quietly to Marvin, “The results were negative.”

His legs nearly give out in relief. He clutches at the wall, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “You’re sure?”

Ramirez smiles. “I’m sure. At least as of right now, you do not have HIV.”

Marvin runs a trembling hand over his face. Then he looks up, frowning. “Wait, what do you mean ‘as of right now’?”

The doctor sighs, regarding him frankly. “Jenna tells me that your last sexual encounter was six months ago?”

Marvin winces. This is _not_ something he wants to discuss with a handsome doctor, his usual type or not. “Yes,” he allows reluctantly.

“But you came in with Whizzer last night.”

Marvin turns, leaning his back against the wall. “He’s my ex,” he confesses quietly. “Before yesterday, I hadn’t seen him in a year and a half. The only reason I was with him last night is because he found out he had HIV in the first place.”

“I see,” the doctor says softly. “And he immediately told you?”

“I—” Marvin starts, then stops. He frowns, thinking about it. Whizzer had said he’d just found out that morning, hadn’t he? And he’d texted Jason in the morning, too. “Yeah, I guess he did,” he realizes.

“And then you stayed with him.”

“Yes.”

The doctor nods, like he’s proved a point. Though what it is, Marvin’s not at all sure.

“I recommend getting checked out every six months or so, just to be safe,” Ramirez says. “For all STIs, not just HIV, though of course it’s very important to get checked for that, too. And Marvin,” he adds, as he nods. “If you ever find yourself… interested, in someone with HIV, just know that there are ways to be safe.”

“I—what do you mean?” Marvin stammers.

“There’s a pill you could take, very similar to the one we’ll be putting Whizzer on, called PrEP,” he says. “It should protect you from contracting the virus, within a margin of error of course. And with a partner with an undetectable viral load, it can be very safe, especially on PrEP.” He stops, taking in Marvin’s discomfort. “I’ll let you talk to your regular physician about it, if you like. Just don’t do anything before you talk to them.”

“Right,” Marvin says, strangled. “Can we go back now?”

“Of course,” Ramirez says. “Go right ahead. I’ll be continuing on my rounds, but I’m sure I’ll see you later.”

He turns and heads down the hall, and Marvin takes a moment to just breathe, letting his heart rate settle. Everything else that Ramirez threw at him aside: he’s okay. He’s not sick. He’s not going to get what Whizzer has.

And Whizzer will get better, too, he thinks fiercely at whoever might be listening. Just in case.

Back in Whizzer’s room, there’s a stilted silence as he walks in. Though it’s broken very quickly as Whizzer starts to cough again, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

“We should go,” Charlotte says quietly, as Jason hops off the bed, retreating to the back corner of the room. “You should get some sleep.”

It’s a sign of how exhausted Whizzer must be that he doesn’t protest. He just smiles wearily up at her, looking drained but sincere. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything you’ve done.”

Charlotte smiles back, her expression open and kind. “You’re welcome.”

“You, too,” he says to Cordelia. “I know you were there last night, even if I don’t really remember it.”

She beams at him. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better! Or… well… going to be feeling better, I guess!”

Charlotte laughs, and there’s that expression in her eyes, the one he was remembering so clearly last night. He grins, the combination of relief and fatigue making him feel suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful for the presence of the two of them in his life.

Luckily, before he can get too sappy, Jason comes back over to the bed. “I brought you your phone, Whizzer,” he says, pulling it out of the front pocket of his hoodie. “That way you don’t have to keep using Dad’s.”

“Thanks, Jason!” Whizzer says, visibly brightening.

“You should check out that video I was telling you about,” Jason says. “Oh! And there’s this other one—”

“Jason,” Marvin interrupts. “We’re heading out now, remember?”

“Okay, okay,” Jason mutters reluctantly. “I’ll text you a link,” he promises Whizzer, who does his best to look excited at the prospect.

There’s a moment of awkwardness as they all linger, before Marvin realizes they’re all waiting on him. He clears his throat, turning briefly away from Whizzer. “I’ll meet you in the car?” he says quietly to Charlotte.

She nods, and they all exchange goodbyes before heading out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Whizzer’s watching him with something sad in his eyes, something Marvin can’t place. He frowns, rounding the bed to sit back down in the chair. “You okay?”

It’s a stupid question, but Whizzer says only, “Yeah, I’m okay.”

Marvin takes a deep breath, reaching on instinct for Whizzer’s hand. He reaches back after a moment, then suddenly pulls back with a start. Marvin startles in turn, opening his mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but Whizzer beats him to it: “Why do you have a band-aid on?”

The parallel to Jason nearly makes him laugh, but Whizzer’s looking at him with something close to panic and he can see the monitor above the bed picking up his increasing heart rate. “Relax,” he says quickly. “I’m fine. They just did a test, that’s all.”

“For…?”

Marvin looks down. “For HIV, yes.” The words seem to be sticking in his throat. God, if it’s this hard to tell Whizzer he doesn’t have it, how much harder must it have been for Whizzer to tell him he did? “Ramirez pulled me out to tell me the results.”

Whizzer is looking nothing short of terrified. “And?”

“And,” Marvin says quietly, avoiding his eyes, “I don’t have it. They were negative.”

There’s a silence, and Marvin looks up carefully, bracing himself for Whizzer’s reaction. He won’t blame him if, stuck in the hospital with a lifetime of treatments and medications and sickness ahead of him, he’s a little resentful that Marvin of all people gets a clean bill of health.

But Whizzer closes his eyes, his face perfectly still, and Marvin’s always underestimated him, hasn’t he? “Thank god,” he breathes. “I didn’t… thank god.”

“Thought you didn’t believe in God,” Marvin teases, because the air between them feels heavy and strange, charged with something he doesn’t understand and doesn’t know how to handle.

Whizzer opens his eyes, and if they’re a little watery, Marvin’s certainly not going to comment on it. “Thank him anyway,” he says with a smile. “And…” He looks away, twisting at the sheets with nervous fingers. “Thank you, too, Marvin. For… you know. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Marvin says, bemused. And a little touched, if he’s honest with himself.

Whizzer looks, if possible, even more exhausted than he did before, and Marvin stands with a sigh, reluctant to go but knowing he needs to. “You’ll be okay?”

Another stupid question, but Whizzer nods, still looking down at the sheets. “I’ll be fine.”

“Alright.” He turns to head out, reaching for the curtain to pull it shut behind him. “Get some rest.”

“Marvin,” Whizzer calls.

He stops, turning back to the bed. “Yeah?”

Whizzer takes a breath, visibly steeling himself, then looks up at him at last. “It was good to see you again,” he says softly.

Wait. He doesn’t think…?

“Whizzer, you know I’m coming back, right?” Whizzer’s eyes widen, and he can’t help it; his face cracks into a smile. “You dunce, you didn’t actually think I was going to leave just like that, did you?”

Whizzer shrugs, looking embarrassed. “You’d have every right to.”

“Every—kid, that doesn’t even make sense.”

Whizzer makes a face. “I’m not a kid.”

“I’m not just going to leave you here on your own,” he says, ignoring this. “I mean—I _am_ , right now, because you need to sleep, but—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Whizzer says. “Forget I said anything.” He’s trying to look annoyed, but his eyes are soft and vulnerable and—dare he think it?—relieved. Relieved that he’s coming back. Because he _wants_ him to come back.

Marvin couldn’t wipe the smile off his face right now if he tried.

But Jason and his neighbors are waiting on him in the car, and Whizzer really does need him to go. He’s putting a brave face on it, has been all morning, but Marvin knows that he’s hurting. And beat.

“Get some sleep,” he says again, softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Whizzer waves him out, his eyes closing as Marvin pulls the curtain shut.


	3. Sunday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what it is about this chapter, but despite how short it is, it took ages to write. Hopefully the next one will be up much faster!
> 
> Obligatory note that I'm not a doctor and know nothing about how hospitals work. (I tried to research, I swear. It's just... so confusing.)

Sunday morning, he lets Jason sleep in. Which is to say, he manages to get himself out of bed only slightly before his preteen son and tries to pass it off as being a generous father. Hey, he’s gotta get Good Dad points somehow.

By the time both of them have gotten up, showered, had breakfast, and gotten themselves ready for the day, it’s veering close to noon and they’ve barely managed to say two words to each other. Marvin hesitates over his phone, torn. On the one hand, the weekends are supposed to be his time with Jason, and he’s spent the entirety of this one so far wrapped up in Whizzer. On the other hand, it’s not every weekend that your ex-boyfriend that you’re still kind of in love with literally collapses back into your life.

… He’s a bad father, isn’t he?

“Jason,” he says, as his kid emerges from brushing his teeth in the bathroom, “want to go to a museum today?”

Jason makes a face. “Aren’t we going to go see Whizzer?”

Marvin shrugs, attempting nonchalance. “We could do something else if you want to.”

Jason is looking at him like he’s never seen someone so stupid before in his life. Which is a look he gets from him a lot, really. “Are you going to be weird about this now?”

“Weird about what?” He attempts a laugh, which quickly sputters and dies.

“Ugh,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “ _I’m_ going to go see Whizzer. _You_ can stay home if you want to.” With this pronouncement, he vanishes into his room, presumably to collect his phone and Switch.

Well, that settles that, then.

He grabs his keys from the counter, stopping briefly to send a quick text to Whizzer to let him know they’re coming. Then he and Jason head to the car.

On the way there, for once, Jason doesn’t plug into his phone. Marvin doesn’t even notice at first, switching on the radio by habit, until he looks over to see his son looking out the window, no headphones in sight. He frowns, turning down the volume of the music. “What’s up, bud?”

Jason looks over at him, then away. He seems like he’s trying to figure out how to say something, which is unusual for him, to put it lightly. Jason has never been one to think before he speaks; he’s a lot like Marvin that way.

Finally, he just asks, “Are you going to get sick now too?”

It’s a good thing they’re at a red light, because Marvin’s instinctive reaction is to press down hard on the brake. “What?” he says, his heart suddenly racing. “Why—why would you think that, Jason?”

Jason shrugs. “The doctor wanted to talk to you yesterday. And before that, you had to fill out a bunch of paperwork, and then you got that cut on your hand and you wouldn’t say why.”

Well, he’s always said that his kid is too smart for his own good. “You’re right,” he says with a sigh. The light turns, and he’s grateful for the excuse not to look at him as he edges forward. “I did get checked out yesterday. I’m sorry I hid it from you.”

“You do that a lot,” Jason mumbles.

He swallows back the sharp retort that rises on his tongue. “Not everything is mine to tell,” he says instead.

“If you mean what Whizzer has, he already told me.”

“He—he did?”

“Yesterday morning, when you were still asleep. He said he had pneumonia, but not to worry about it, because it wasn’t the kind I could get from him.”

Oh. “He’s right,” Marvin says. “The doctor told us that in the emergency room. It was one of the first things he asked about.”

“Okay,” Jason says, “but he didn’t say if _you_ could get it.”

It shouldn’t warm his heart so much to think that his kid was worrying about him, but somehow, after all the mishegoss of these past few days, after spending the past day and a half in a state of violent anxiety over literally everything, it kind of helps. “I can’t,” he reassures him. “You’re right, that’s what they were checking on. But I can’t get it from him either.”

“Why?”

Marvin winces, trying to think of a way to explain it that won’t give away more than Whizzer is comfortable with. “I—I can’t really tell you, buddy,” he settles on eventually. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Jason seems to accept that, looking back out the window as Marvin turns onto Fifth Avenue. Then, suddenly, he asks, “So are you guys back together again?”

This time he really does step on the brake, causing outraged honking from the car behind him.

After making sure he doesn’t get them into an accident (and flipping off the guy behind him, who speeds into the other lane to get around, screaming curses out his window all the while), he asks very calmly, “What makes you think that?”

Jason is clutching tight to the door handle, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Dad,” he says. “It was just a _question_.”

For some reason, this strikes him as hysterically funny. After a moment, Jason joins in his laughter, and Marvin parks with relief in the garage, ruffling Jason’s hair as they get out of the car.

They’re still giggling as they head into the hospital. His favorite receptionist is in; she merely grunts at him when he asks if they can go up to Whizzer’s room, which he decides to interpret as a yes. There’s still no one in the nearer bed; he pulls back the curtain around Whizzer’s with a smile.

And then he stops, heart plummeting, because Whizzer looks…

His face is nearly colorless, streaked with sweat, his hair limp on his forehead. He’s asleep, face turned towards the window, breathing heavily in a way that has Marvin pushing the call button for the nurse before he can think twice.

“He looks worse,” comes Jason’s small voice from behind him.

He turns, placing a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go wait downstairs,” he says tightly. “I’m just going to talk to his doctor.”

“I can wait here,” Jason says uncertainly, but Marvin shakes his head. He doesn’t want his kid to be there if…

As Jason heads out, a nurse comes bustling in, pushing a computer cart ahead of her. She looks at Whizzer, gasping for air on the bed, then up with a smile at Marvin. “Hi, I’m Amanda. What seems to be the problem?”

Is she serious? “He’s not breathing right,” he says, pointing at Whizzer, in case she’s too stupid to figure out whom he means. “I just came in, who knows how long he’s been like this—”

“I’ll check his vitals,” the nurse says, still smiling. “Would you like to take a seat?”

He stares at her. Whizzer is visibly struggling to breathe, and she wants to know if he’s going to sit? “I’m fine,” he grits out.

She does a quick scan of the monitors, all of which are churning out numbers he doesn’t understand but is certain are lower than yesterday. Except his heart rate: that seems high. “Well, his O2 saturation is a little low,” she says, in the tone of voice he’d expect from someone reprimanding a misbehaving pet. She checks something on her screen. “His attending doctor is due to come by in about thirty minutes, so he can determine then whether to increase his oxygen flow—”

Every last bit of patience he was clutching onto snaps. “He can’t wait thirty minutes!” Marvin yells at her. “He needs it now, so do it now!”

Whizzer shifts on the bed, his eyes fluttering but not quite opening. The nurse gives him a strained smile. “Would you like me to call the doctor for you?”

“Yes,” he says, keeping his voice lowered with an effort. “That would be—yes.”

She takes out a cell phone, walking purposefully into the hall. Marvin hovers anxiously by the bed, watching Whizzer pant for breath, his hand clenching compulsively into a fist at his side.

“He’ll be in shortly,” the nurse says, returning to her cart. “In the meantime, I’m going to go ahead and increase the flow rate of the oxygen. That should help him rest more comfortably.”

Marvin looks up at her, taking in the tightness around her eyes, the jerkiness of her movements as she fiddles with the machines. She reminds him of Trina after a fight, swallowing down her anger to get his dinner done on time. Which she always would, perfectly, so that he would get even angrier for not having a reason to fight with her more.

He’s not always a very good person.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His pride aside, the last thing he wants is for her to take out her anger at him on Whizzer, lying helpless on the bed between them. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” the nurse says, but she smiles, the lines around her eyes relaxing. “But I understand. It’s tough to see someone you love suffering like this.”

He doesn’t answer; he can’t. He sits heavily in the chair instead, letting her work, watching Whizzer anxiously for signs that he’s starting to breathe a little better.

Ramirez walks in soon after, and the first thing he does is frown at the monitors. Which does nothing to calm Marvin’s pending panic attack.

He talks briefly with the nurse, verifying that she’s upped his oxygen, then turns at last to Marvin, watching him closely from the chair. He smiles, but it’s not the open, friendly smile Marvin is used to seeing from him. “I understand you have concerns,” he says.

“You could say that,” Marvin says with a grim smile of his own. He gestures at Whizzer. “Why isn’t he getting better?”

Instead of answering, Ramirez turns to the nurse. “Thank you, Amanda. You can go.” She nods at him, then gives Marvin one last encouraging smile before she leaves. He’s not sure how people with that much kindness in them survive in the world.

“Marvin,” Ramirez says, turning back to him with solemn eyes, “I need to be very clear with you right now. This was not an emergency.”

“He wasn’t breathing right!”

“He has pneumonia,” the doctor reminds him. “Difficulty breathing is part of the territory. In this case, we decided to increase his oxygen for a short period of time, because you’re right, the discomfort he was experiencing was unnecessary. But you need to be prepared to see him in some discomfort from time to time.”

“I don’t understand why—”

“It’s very important that you _do_ understand,” Ramirez cuts him off. “Because I won’t have you interfering with his care.”

Marvin sits back in shock, the wind knocked out of him. “Interfering with his—I wasn’t—”

“Yelling at the nurses, causing a scene in front of the patient—that’s exactly what you were doing. And I know you didn’t mean to,” he continues, cutting Marvin off as he opens his mouth to protest. “I know you’re worried about him. And it can be very scary to watch a loved one in distress, I know. I don’t blame you for getting upset. But I can’t allow you to behave like that, not in this room.”

Marvin looks down, shame burning in his throat. “It won’t happen again,” he says hoarsely. It’s something he’s gotten used to promising, over the past couple of years.

“Thank you,” the doctor says gently. “And to your question…” Marvin looks up, his chest tight. “The medication he’s on takes a little while to work. It’s likely to be another few days until you start seeing improvement. In the meantime, the first few days of treatment, it’s not unusual for patients to experience a decline in oxygenation. The corticosteroids he’s on are helping with that, as is the oxygen therapy, but for the most part we just need to wait it out.”

“So this will keep happening?”

“It might,” the doctor says, his expression sympathetic. “It’s possible it could get worse than this, too. You need to be prepared for that.” This time his smile is kind, like Marvin remembers it. “But I promise you, if we had any immediate concerns, we’d let you know. For right now, he’s not in danger.”

“But he could be.”

“We’re keeping a close eye on him,” Ramirez assures him. “We won’t let anything happen that we could prevent, Marvin. Try to trust us a little.”

He looks up at Whizzer again, colorless and frail, lying motionless on the bed. There’s something about seeing him so still, so out of it, that makes him look oddly lonely. How is he meant to trust anyone, when there’s so much at stake?

“Okay,” he says; what else can he say? “Okay, just—” He swallows. He wants promises; he wants reassurance. But he knows better than to demand more than the doctor can give. That’s another lesson he’s had to learn, lately.

Ramirez stands, patting him briefly on the shoulder. “Why don’t you go get something to eat?” he suggests. “Everything is harder on an empty stomach.”

Marvin groans. “You sound like my mother.”

“Smart woman,” he says with a laugh. “Italian?”

“Jewish.”

“Ah. I’m Latino, I understand the struggle. But they may have been onto something, our moms.” He winks. “I’ll stop in again later. Say hi to the rest of the crew for me.”

Ah, shit, Marvin thinks, Jason. How long has his kid been waiting for him now? He stands as the doctor leaves, lingering over Whizzer for a long moment. He’s still breathing heavily, but the numbers on the screen have started to increase just a little, and he can’t leave his son in the waiting room all day. He brushes the back of his hand over Whizzer’s cheek, swallowing hard. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promises. Emergency or not, immediate danger or no: he’s not going to leave Whizzer to suffer like this alone. 

* * *

“How is he?” Jason asks, the moment he walks into the waiting room.

Marvin shakes his head, too emotionally drained to lie. “Not good,” he says through a tight throat. “He’s…” He stops, taking in Jason’s expression. He looks about as close to crying as Marvin feels. “The doctor says it’s normal, though,” he offers weakly. “And…” He tries to remember what else Ramirez said, something reassuring. “They’re keeping a close eye on him.”

Jason nods, still looking anxious and upset. Marvin wishes he could be a better father. But everything he has right now is being put to use just to keep him from having a panic attack here in the middle of the waiting room.

“Why don’t you call your mom,” he manages. “Get her to pick you up.”

“She’s away this weekend,” Jason reminds him.

Oh, so maybe that wasn’t a lie after all. “Okay. I’ll call her then. See if she can’t come back a little early.”

“She’s not going to be happy,” Jason warns him.

Marvin smiles, and if it’s a little wobbly, who’s going to say anything about it? “You let me worry about that, bud. Just go on back to your game.”

* * *

 Trina is not happy.

“You begged for weekends, Marvin,” she’s lecturing him, as she so loves to do. Since the divorce, he’s gotten more lectures from Trina than he ever received from his mother during his entire childhood, and that’s something of a feat. He wonders sometimes if she’d stored them up somehow, through the ten years of their marriage, and now they're all bursting free all at once. “Not even every other weekend, like the Kaplans do, _every_ weekend. And then the minute Mendel and I go away…”

“This has nothing to do with you and Mendel,” he snaps. “I told you, I have a friend in the hospital. I need to be here for him.”

“And who is this ‘friend’?” Trina asks suspiciously.

Too late, he remembers all the occasions he’d called Whizzer his “friend,” back when “secret gay lover” had been a bit too much to admit. “Just a friend,” he says with a wince. “Look, Trina, I know you don’t want our son to be stuck here all day. I just took him by to visit, but—” He swallows. “He’s gotten worse, and—”

“It’s Whizzer, isn’t it?” Trina says with a sigh.

“It’s Whizzer,” Marvin admits. He thinks he hears her mutter something like “it’s always Whizzer” under her breath, but he can’t be sure.

There’s a pause, then a hushed argument on the other end of the line. Finally, with what sounds to be a fair amount of shuffling, Mendel’s voice comes through: “Marvin?”

“Mendel.”

“We’re about an hour away,” he says. “How’s Jason doing?”

“Fine,” Marvin says tightly.

“Okay, yeah, good.” A pause. “How are you doing?”

“An hour?” Marvin says. “You’re leaving now?”

“Just gotta pack up, yeah,” Mendel says. “We’re in Cornwall, you should visit sometime, there’s some really great museums—”

“Great,” Marvin says, “see you soon.”

“Okay, great, yeah—”

Marvin hangs up.

He heads back over to Jason, who’s buried again in his Switch. “Was she mad?” he says, not looking up.

Marvin huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “But they’re coming. They should get here in an hour or so.”

Jason nods, refusing to look at him. Or maybe he’s just absorbed in his game, and Marvin’s reading into it more than he needs to. “Want to get some lunch?” he offers.

“No,” Jason says shortly.

Okay, he’s definitely mad at him. “Look, I’m sorry, kid,” he tries. “I know the weekends are supposed to be my time with you—”

“I want to see Whizzer,” Jason interrupts.

Marvin pauses, caught off guard. “He’s sleeping.”

“I want to see him anyway.”

He hesitates, unsure, but then, what harm can it do? Jason’s already seen him today; he can’t undo that, no matter how much he might like to. “Okay,” he decides finally. Jason looks up at him, surprised. “Come on.”

* * *

It turns out they’re allowed to order food right to Whizzer’s room. He’s still asleep, looking much the same as he was twenty minutes ago, so they sit on the other side of the room, by the bed nearer the door.

“The doctor said he’d get better?” Jason asks again, picking at his fries.

“He did,” Marvin confirms. He resists the urge to twist back in his seat, try to catch another glimpse of Whizzer. The curtain is closed, anyway, so that they don’t accidentally wake him. Not that that’s likely, given how heavily he seems to be sleeping.

He doesn’t want to think about that.

Jason is still frowning. “But he could get worse first.”

Should he not have told him that? After all the effort he’s put into being honest with Jason lately, it felt wrong to lie to him about this. But he’s still just a kid, he shouldn’t have to worry about all of this. “He’ll get better,” Marvin says firmly. “They’re not going to let anything happen to him.”

God, he hopes he’s right.

Jason does look a little reassured, though, actually eating one of his fries. “How did he get so sick?”

“People get sick sometimes,” Marvin says. “It just happens.”

“Yeah, but usually they go to a doctor.” He’s back to picking at his food. “He didn’t, did he?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he wouldn’t have gotten so sick if he’d gone to a doctor. And besides, you made Charlotte check him out, and you wouldn’t have had to if he’d already been to one.”

“Alright. No, he didn’t see a doctor. That’s why he came back with me, Friday night.”

“Because he got so sick.”

“Right.”

Jason sighs, as only a world-weary twelve-year-old can do. “Sometimes I think he isn’t very smart.”

“I used to think that, too,” Marvin admits. “But you know, bud, not everybody’s smart in the same way as you and me. Whizzer’s smart in a different way.”

“Like photography.”

“For instance.”

“And like how Mom’s smart about cooking, and Mendel’s smart about helping people.”

“… I guess.”

“Mom and Mendel would have gone to a doctor,” Jason says.

Marvin shrugs helplessly. “Whizzer doesn’t like doctors. He never has.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s stupid,” Jason proclaims. “He’s stupid.”

“Jason, don’t blame him for this,” Marvin says quietly. “It’s not his fault.”

“Then whose is it?” He stands abruptly, shoving his food away.

Marvin stands, too, reaching out to try to pull him into a hug. “Sometimes it’s not anyone’s fault, bud. Sometimes things just happen.”

Jason twists away. “That’s a stupid answer,” he says hotly. “You’re stupid too. I’m going downstairs to wait for Mom.”

“Jason—”

He’s already gone.

“Ah, shit,” Marvin mutters to himself.

He cleans up their trays, stacking them neatly on the end table, and then he can’t resist anymore: he pulls back the curtain around Whizzer’s bed, watching for a long moment as his chest rises and falls. A year and a half ago, would he ever have thought that this man could look so fragile?

Would it have changed anything, if he had?

He heads back down to the waiting room, where he and Jason sit in uneasy silence. Thankfully, it’s not long before Trina arrives, Mendel trailing behind her like an anxious, frazzled puppy. So, nothing unusual there, then.

“Jason, dear, hello,” Trina says, crossing over to hug him. He squirms out of her reach, and she frowns, putting her hands on her hips. “Do you have your bag?”

“In Dad’s car,” he mumbles.

“Well, why don’t you go get it,” she says, gesturing for Marvin to hand over the keys. “I’m just going to talk to your father for a minute.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mendel offers hurriedly to Jason. The coward.

The minute they’re gone, Trina whirls on him. “When exactly did you get back together with Whizzer?”

Like it always does around her, his temper flares. “Who says it’s any of your business?”

“It’s my business when my son—”

“Our son—”

“—when _Jason_ is affected by it! He’s been through enough, Marvin—”

“Oh, and that’s all my fault, of course—”

“Stop playing the victim, I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you—”

“Marvin?” Charlotte comes around the corner, her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “I thought I heard your voice. Hi, I’m Charlotte,” she says to Trina, holding out her hand to shake.

Trina takes it, smiling tightly. “Trina.”

“Oh.” Charlotte’s eyes widen; she quickly schools her expression. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“I’m sure you have.” Trina looks her over, clearly taking in the lab coat. “Are you Whizzer’s doctor, then?”

“Oh—no, just a friend of Marvin’s.”

“My neighbor,” Marvin explains brusquely.

“Actually, I was just stopping by to ask you how he’s doing. I haven’t made it up to see him yet.”

“He’s… he’s not great,” Marvin says truthfully. He clears his throat. “He, ah, this morning—his oxygen levels…”

Trina’s watching him closely, her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with him?”

She directs the question at Charlotte, but Charlotte turns to Marvin, leaving him fumbling. “It’s not really… he’s not…”

“He has pneumonia,” Charlotte rescues him.

“That’s not so bad,” Trina says cautiously.

“Go take a look at him and then tell me that,” Marvin snaps at her.

Charlotte is looking between them like she wants to reprimand someone and can’t figure out whom. “It’s a pretty serious case,” she says carefully to Trina, “but the doctors have it under control,” she finishes to Marvin.

He huffs. “You’re a doctor. You have to say that.”

“I’m a doctor,” she agrees, “so I know it’s true.” She smiles at him, and he reluctantly smiles back. Trina is watching them both, her brow creased.

“Is he really sick?” she blurts out.

Marvin scowls at her. “He’s in a hospital, Trina, what do you think?”

She looks down, embarrassed. “It’s just hard to imagine, to be honest. He always seemed so…” Wisely, she trails off.

But, if he’s honest, Marvin knows what she means. Whizzer had always been so effortlessly together, so quick with an insult and a wink, so charmingly cruel and yet boyishly sweet. He was impossible to hurt, Marvin had thought, stupidly. A pretty, mean boy with all charm and no feelings. By the time he knew better, they had already settled into the patterns of spite and sex that would destroy them not six months down the line.

But Trina’s never seen him reeling back from a dig that hit home, never watched him bite his lip and twist his hands and refuse to meet someone’s eyes, never heard his voice crack or watched the shutter fall over his eyes. She doesn’t understand what he was protecting. Who he was, under all that hair and forced indifference.

It’s not like Marvin can blame her, really. After all, it’s taken him this long.

Because it’s so easy, now, to see the facade for what it was. Just armor and bad acting, flimsy and cheap, and yet they’d all bought into it, hadn’t they? Maybe he’d needed it to be true, back then. For there to be someone he couldn’t hurt, one person’s life he couldn’t ruin. Only not being able to hurt him meant that Whizzer never truly belonged to him, and Marvin had _wanted,_ then, so much, so badly, and to be able to _touch_ but not to _keep_ … God. They had ruined each other in so many ways. Not for the first time, he thinks to himself that breaking up with Whizzer was the first adult decision he ever truly made.

No matter how much he may regret it now.

Charlotte clears her throat, looking down at her watch. “I need to get back to it,” she says regretfully. “Trina, it was lovely to meet you.”

“You as well,” Trina says politely.

Marvin nods at her, and she goes, tucking her hands back into her coat pockets. He watches until she rounds the corner, then turns back to Trina.

“She seems nice.”

“She is,” he agrees. He’s all but tapping his foot, desperate to get back to Whizzer. What if something’s happened, while he’s been down here, wasting his time on her? Shouldn’t a divorce mean not having to suffer through these stupid conversations anymore?

His impatience must show on his face, because Trina’s eyes flash. “You can’t even wait until your son gets back, can you? It’s all about Whizzer, isn’t it?”

“Of course I’m waiting for Jason!” he snaps. “And don’t tell me how to have a relationship with my son!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you would just make some time for him! He wants you to pay attention to him, Marvin, not leave him sitting around while you moon over your boyfriend!”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Then that’s even worse.” She laughs a little, unkindly. “So you’re really not back together? God, Marvin, does Whizzer even want you here, then? It was a pretty bad breakup, as I recall.”

She never used to be this mean, did she? He’s certain she used to be kinder, softer. More willing to give. “Since when do you care what he wants?”

“I don’t. What I care about is our son. You know, I got a call from the temple today,” she goes on, her tone dangerous. “They wanted to know why Jason wasn’t in Hebrew school this morning.”

… Oops.

“Right,” he says weakly. “Hebrew school. Sundays. Of course.”

“This is the year of his Bar Mitzvah.” Her glare is actually a little intimidating. “He can’t afford to miss Hebrew school.”

“I forgot,” he confesses. “With everything that happened…”

She softens a little, but not much. “This is what I mean, Marvin. The minute Whizzer shows up, you forget all about your family.” There are years’ worth of resentment in her voice.

He sighs, feeling his shoulders drop. The worst of it is, he knows she’s not wrong. He should be a better father. He needs to be. But… “You don’t understand,” he says. “No, I’m not blaming you,” he adds quickly as she narrows her eyes. “I just mean… Trina, he collapsed in my kitchen not two days ago. Jason had to call the ambulance. And today, you should see him—he can barely breathe, he—the doctor says it could get worse—” He stops, his voice wavering.

Trina says, almost gently, “You still love him, don’t you?”

He shrugs.

“I never understood what the two of you saw in each other.” She says it almost to herself, like she’s forgotten he’s there.

He gives a stilted laugh. “I know you hate him—”

“I don’t hate him,” she says unexpectedly. She flushes, then, like she hadn’t meant to say it, but she goes on anyway, “I never hated him. I wish I could.” She sighs, looking away from him. “I wanted to blame him for it. For all of it. The divorce, the cheating, the fights… it would be so much easier if it was just his fault.” She smiles wryly at him. “But it wasn’t, was it? That was all on us.”

He shrugs again, not sure what to say. Does she want an apology? “I’m—”

“I don’t hate you either, you know,” she says softly, and he stops, unexpected heat behind his eyes. “Though I wish you would get your priorities in line.”

“I didn’t expect this to happen,” he says helplessly. “I didn’t even think I would ever see him again. But now—Trina, he needs me, I can’t—”

“Your son needs you, too,” she chides him, but he hears the resignation in her voice. It stings, to think that this is just one more way he’s disappointed her, one more failure to add to the pile. “Just promise me that you’ll make time for him, next weekend. No matter what’s happening with Whizzer.”

He nods; it’s the best he can do. Next week feels a million years away.

She sighs, fiddling with her purse strap. “Tell him I hope he feels better soon.”

“Thanks,” he says hoarsely. Then frowns, looking around. “Why haven’t Jason and Mendel come back yet?”

Trina looks at him, wide-eyed. “How far was your car?”

“Not that far.” He rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s go find them. Bet you $10 Mendel’s gone and shoved him in a supply closet somewhere to talk about his feelings.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Trina says wryly. “Mendel’s claustrophobic. Wherever they’re talking about feelings, it’s out in the open.”

Trina’s right, of course; they find them not too far away, sitting on the floor as if there aren’t perfectly good chairs literally right behind them. Trina raises her eyebrows at him, and he huffs, digging out his wallet. He should know better than to bet against her by now; he never does win.

“… was scared,” Jason is saying as he approaches, and he stops, eyes darting to Trina. She’s stopped, too, her brow creased, her hand still on the strap of her purse. Neither Jason nor Mendel has noticed them yet, faces pointed towards the floor.

“It’s not a bad thing to be scared,” Mendel says. Marvin barely holds in a snort. A doctorate in psychiatry, and that’s the best he can do? Why did Marvin ever pay him, again?

“I know,” Jason says sullenly. “But… I’ve never seen him like that before.”

“You care about Whizzer a lot, huh?”

“Of course I do,” Jason says readily, and Marvin tries not to smile, seeing the sour look in Trina’s eyes. “He cares about me, too.”

“He does,” Mendel agrees. Trina looks like she’s biting on a lemon. “So does your dad, you know.”

“And you, and Mom. I _know_. I’m not mad about that.”

“So what are you mad about?”

“I don’t _know._ I’m just _mad_.”

Mendel nods. “You know what? I think it’s okay to be mad, too. Even if you don’t know why.”

Jason looks up at him, his face hopeful. But then he sees Marvin and Trina, hovering above them, and his jaw clenches. “It’s rude to eavesdrop, you know!” he shouts at them. A gray-haired woman in the row of chairs behind him jumps, then looks guiltily away. Jason stands, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m going to the car!”

“Jason, wait—” For the second time today, his son has already walked away.

“I hope he finds the car,” Mendel says, standing with a groan. “I wasn’t sure where to park.”

Trina shakes her head. “Come on. Let’s go catch up with him.” She nods a farewell to Marvin, then turns on her heel and goes.

Mendel lingers, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Hey, uh, if you ever want to talk—”

“Save it for your patients,” Marvin says tiredly. “Which Jason isn’t, by the way.”

Mendel looks at him steadily. “He’s not really mad, you know.”

“He sure seems it to me.”

“Well, he _is_ mad,” he corrects himself, and Marvin rolls his eyes. “No, I mean—he’s mad, yes. But it’s not at you, or Whizzer, or anyone, really. He’s just mad because he doesn’t know how else to express himself.”

“You learn that in college?” Marvin says snidely.

Mendel smiles at him, kindly. “I learned that from his father.”

Marvin swallows, looking away. That was… probably deserved.

“I mean it,” Mendel says. “If you ever want to talk.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” There. He can be gracious sometimes.

“Okay. Cool. Yeah. Just, you know, text me or whatever. Or just show up! You know where I live!”

“Just go, Mendel. Jason and Trina have probably driven themselves home by now.”

Mendel makes a face. “If they can find the car. Actually, I’m not sure _I_ can find the car…”

He walks off, muttering to himself, and Marvin rolls his eyes. But he can’t deny that he feels, at least, a little less alone.

* * *

By the time he gets back to his room, Whizzer’s finally starting to look a little better, some color coming back into his face at last. Marvin sits by the bed, taking Whizzer’s hand. He’s surprised, and delighted, to feel a brief squeeze as he does.

“Whizzer,” he breathes, leaning over the bed. “Hey.”

Whizzer cracks open his eyes, blinking slowly. Then he smiles, just a little.

It isn’t fair, what that smile does to his heart. None of this is fair.

Whizzer is sinking back into sleep, his head sagging against the pillow. Marvin reaches up, brushing his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “Go back to sleep,” he murmurs quietly. “I’ll be here.”

That much he can promise, at least.

He’ll be here for as long as it takes.


	4. Monday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween! It's also NaNoWriMo eve, which means I'm going to try to switch my focus to my original work during the next month. So I make no promises about any sort of update schedule until December. But I have the next few chapters already half-written, plus plenty of notes for everything to come, PLUS several one-shots set in the same 'verse in various stages of completion. So this fic will definitely not be abandoned :).
> 
> Also, it's a very real possibility that I'll give up on my original novel and just end up doing this for NaNo. But don't jinx me, guys.
> 
> Trigger warning in this chapter for discussion of low appetite and weight loss (towards the very end). And, as always, I'm not a doctor (or an advertising executive, for that matter).

_the doctor says you were here yesterday. sorry i dont remember it._

Marvin smiles down at his phone. _I’m not surprised. You were pretty out of it_. He glances up briefly, checking that his office blinds are closed so no one catches him texting, then adds, _How are you feeling?_

_fine_

Marvin waits.

_okay, shitty_

He laughs; he can just picture Whizzer’s pout right now. _What do your oxygen levels look like?_

_??? what number is that_

_The bottom one._

_it says 94 idk what that means_

_From what I understand, a little low._

_when did you go to med school_

_Just been doing some research._ There’s a pause; he looks up at his computer screen, the cursor blinking at him mockingly. Then back at his phone, lying quiet in his lap. He’s spent all morning trying not to imagine the worst, trying to shake the image of Whizzer lying there struggling for air, ashen and sweating in that narrow bed. He knows that he’s being irrational. He knows the doctor is taking care of him, that Whizzer is okay, or if not okay at least not in immediate danger. But he _has_ been researching, trying to glean what knowledge he can, and to learn that the disease Whizzer has is exactly the same one that killed hundreds of thousands of men, back when the AIDS crisis first took hold…

It’s not the ‘80s, he knows. Times have changed. Pneumocystis pneumonia is curable, AIDS is manageable, and Whizzer is going to be just fine. And Whizzer’s okay, and awake, and texting him.

Or was, a minute ago.

Before he can help it, he’s typing rapidly: _What’s going on?_

No response, for a moment, and he bites his lip, trying to quell the impulse to leap from his seat and run the five and a half miles to the hospital, work and his dour boss be damned. Then, finally, his phone pings: _sorry lunch orders._

Relief sweeps through him like a tide. Dammit, he needs to keep his panic in check; he’s not going to make it through the day like this. _Anything good?_

_its a hospital obviously not._

He smiles; from Whizzer, petulance is an encouraging sign. _I can get Cordelia to make you something, if you want. She’s fine as long as she’s not experimenting._

_well thats reassuring._

_I’ve had her chicken soup before, it’s pretty good._

_its fine im not that hungry_

He frowns, remembering how much thinner Whizzer has gotten. _Whizzer, you need to eat._

_dont lecture me, i get it enough from the nurses._

_Well someone’s got to get through that thick head of yours._

_excuse you my head is perfectly shaped_

There’s a knock at his office door, and he jumps, quickly shoving his phone in his pocket and making sure the contract is still up on his screen. “Come in,” he calls.

It’s his boss, already looking harried as she sticks her head in the door. “Busy?”

That’s a trick question if he’s ever heard one. “I can take a few minutes,” he says cautiously. His phone pings; he shoves it deeper in his pocket, hoping she didn’t hear.

She comes in, shutting the door behind her and taking a seat in one of the chairs facing the desk. He suppresses a groan; this means she’s going to take a while, doesn’t it? He shifts as his phone pings insistently against his thigh.

“Marvin, we’re nearing the end of the fiscal year,” his boss starts, leaning back in the chair with her arms folded across her chest. “And as I’m sure you’re aware, that means the Board of Trustees is going to be meeting soon.”

Yes, he’s very aware of that, thank you. “Of course.”

She nods. “Your work with the Jones campaign was excellent,” she says, and he blinks, startled by the rare compliment.

“Thank you, Kathleen.” Another ping. He puts his hand over his pocket, as if that will muffle the sound.

She raises her eyebrows. “But I’m not seeing the same level of dedication to this Applebaum campaign you’re meant to be working on,” she says pointedly.

He winces. Alright, maybe he hasn’t been putting in as much effort as he should. But really, the guy’s a jerk, and the product is so stupid that he’s been absolutely stalled for ideas on how the hell to go about selling it. His job would be so much easier if people would just make things consumers actually wanted in the first place.

“I’m finishing up the contract for Wilson,” he deflects weakly. “Just want to make sure he signs that by the end of the month.”

“Fine,” Kathleen says. “Do that. But then get me something for Applebaum, Marvin. Something I can use.”

He nods. “Absolutely.” His phone pings again, for the fourth time now. He tries to subtly check it, but Kathleen is watching him with impatience. “Sorry,” he explains quickly. “I’ve got a friend in the hospital. Just checking in on him.”

“Oh,” she says, surprised. Her demeanor softens; Kathleen can be harsh, but she isn’t heartless. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“Pneumonia,” he answers absently, as his phone pings again.

“Oh, that’s not so bad. I’m surprised he’s even in the hospital for it, really. When Jim got pneumonia last year they just gave him antibiotics.”

Is she trying to be reassuring? “The doctors said it’s a serious case,” he says stiffly.

She shrugs. “Yes, but they would, wouldn’t they?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that that’s how they get paid. Running up the bills of people who don’t need to be there.” She must catch the look in his eyes, because she changes the subject quickly: “How much longer on the contract?”

He forces a smile. “End of day.”

“Good,” she says, standing. “I’ll expect it on my desk by 4, then.”

Which is an hour earlier than he just said, but she is the boss, after all. “It’ll be there.”

Unexpectedly, she smiles at him. “You can leave after that, if you like. Visit your friend.”

He gapes at her, for a moment, then smiles back, this time with genuine warmth. “Thanks, Kathleen.”

She winks at him. “I’d kill anyone who tried to keep me from Jim, if he were that sick. Just make sure you get your work done.”

She leaves, Marvin staring after her in shock. Is she implying what he thinks she’s implying?

Is he really that obvious?

Frowning, he pulls out his phone, which has pinged yet again while he waited for the door to close. There’s a series of texts from Whizzer:

_marvin?_

_marvin_

_maaaarvin_

_okay your head is perfectgly shaped too_

_still not as good as mine tho_

_marvin?_

He smiles; some things don’t change, and it looks like Whizzer’s constant need for attention is one of them. _Sorry, kiddo. My boss came in, I had to pretend I was working._ After a second, he adds, _And you’ve got a receding hairline, so there._

The reply is immediate: _do not_

_You do. It’s your only physical imperfection. Let me have it._

_thats weirdcly sweeet_

He frowns. Whizzer isn’t exactly the world’s best typist, but he doesn’t often misspell words like that. _You okay?_

_tired_

He tries to ignore his disappointment. He should get back to work, anyway. Especially if he wants to get out of here by 4. _Okay. Talk to you later then._

But Whizzer texts back hurriedly: _no sleeping id boring_

_Whizzer, if you’re too tired to type, you should probably go to sleep._

_al;l i do arounfd here is sleep._

_That’s kind of the point of a hospital. Let you get some rest while you recover._

_boring_

_I’m not arguing with you about this_ , he types, smiling despite himself. _Go to sleep_.

 _you usedf to like to argue_ , Whizzer texts back. The smile falls right off his face. _whats changed?_

For a moment, he’s not sure how to respond. It’s impossible to tell if Whizzer’s joking, or angry, or just trying to instigate a fight, the way he used to do when he got bored. Or is he genuinely curious? How is he supposed to know how to respond when he isn’t sure what Whizzer wants to hear?

 _A lot of things_ , he answers cautiously. _For one, I’m not as angry anymore._

There’s a brief pause, and then Whizzer texts: _i know. ive noticed._

So maybe he meant it seriously, if the sudden care he’s taking with his spelling is any indication. And, anyway, this is something Whizzer deserves to hear. Even if doing it over text isn’t really ideal.

But now that it’s come up, he can’t put it off. Not now, not with everything still sitting between them. Whizzer deserves better than that.

 _I’ve had a lot of time to think_ , he types slowly. _And I realized I didn’t like myself very much._ No answer, but he doesn’t blame him; he’s not sure what he would have said to that either. _So I just… tried to slow it down. Talked to Jason, finally apologized to Trina._ Missed you, he doesn’t say.

_howd that gp?_

_go*_

He shrugs. _It went okay. Jason’s still mad, I think, but he doesn’t hate me as much anymore._

Whizzer texts quickly: _he never hated you._

Marvin’s eyes sting; he swipes at them impatiently. _He sure didn’t like me much for a while._

There’s a long pause, and he wonders for a moment if Whizzer’s just not going to answer. But his phone pings: _he was mad, sure. but hes always admired you, marv. why do you think he likes chess so much? or museums? no normal kid actually asks to go to a museum. he wanted to impress you._

That’s… possibly the nicest thing Whizzer’s ever said to him. His eyes are stinging again; it’s starting to get annoying. _He’s always impressed me_ , Marvin answers honestly. Then he grins. Just because Whizzer’s being nice doesn’t mean he has to be. _And I’m not sure we should base normal patterns of behavior on_ your _childhood._

This time the answer comes much faster: _shove it_

He laughs. _But seriously. We’re doing better, him and me._

_you seem closerr. im glad_

That reminds him: _How long have you been in touch with him?_

_idk exacvtly. awhile_

Back to the typos, then. He winces; it’s easy to forget over texting just how sick Whizzer is, how much rest he needs. He should let him sleep, he knows. But he can’t help his curiosity: _He said he invited you to his baseball game._

_yeah_

_Why didn’t you come?_

_wanted tto_

_You could’ve, you know_. He wishes he had. Maybe if he’d seen him earlier, strolling into the park like he owned the place, hands on his hips and smiling that radiant smile… who knows what would have happened? Who knows where they would be, by now?

At the very least, he could have made him see a doctor earlier. They could have avoided all of this.

 _was gonnaa evebtually_ , Whizzer types, and he’s surprised by the relief he feels. So they would have seen each other, then, one way or another. For some reason, that helps. Maybe there’s something other than this disease that would’ve been enough to break down that angry, aching silence between them.

 _You still can_ , he types. _When you’re feeling better._

It takes a while for Whizzer to respond, but when he does, Marvin’s heart leaps in his chest. _i will._

 _His team isn’t great_ , he types, more to keep himself from admitting how much that tiny promise means to him than anything else. _But Jason will be thrilled to see you there. Maybe you could help him with his pitching._

No answer; he keeps typing. _Charlotte and Cordelia come sometimes, too. They get a little… over invested. It’ll be nice to have an extra hand to pull them back down into their seats._

Still no response. He frowns. _Whizzer? Did you fall asleep?_

His phone is silent.

_Sweet dreams._

* * *

His phone pings again a while later, when he’s finally getting somewhere with the contract. He jumps, grabbing for it, but it’s Charlotte: _Hi Marvin. Just checked in on our favorite patient. He’s looking good, all things considered._

He smiles. He’s not sure what he did to deserve her—probably he doesn’t—but he’s grateful to have her nonetheless. _Thanks, Charlotte. He was texting me earlier, but I guess he fell asleep._

 _He was out when I was there._ He puts the phone down, turning back to his computer, but it pings again: _Are you going to visit him tonight?_

_If he’s up for it._

_Okay. I’ll try to stop in while you’re there._

Oh, that reminds him: _Actually, is Cordelia around? I promised him some of her soup._

_Sure, I’ll ask her. She’s got a client this afternoon, but she’ll probably be up for swinging by later._

_Thanks. You’re a mensch._

He can just picture her smirk. _Don’t you forget it._

He laughs. _Never could._

* * *

All told, it’s 3:45 when he drops the contract on Kathleen’s desk, which he’s inordinately proud of. She looks at him with a calculating glint to her eye that he doesn’t particularly like, but she waves him off when he asks if he can go, and that’s all he cares about right now. He’ll deal with whatever she wants from him later.

It’s a half hour drive from where he works to the hospital, which he spends in an increasing state of nerves that’s becoming all too familiar to him. It’s all fine and well to text with Whizzer, after all, when he can’t see his face or hear his stuttered breathing. It’s easy to pretend that everything’s fine, when it’s just words on his phone. But in that room, surrounded by machines and swallowed up in the bed, there’s no hiding from the fact that Whizzer is sick, badly sick. And, as he can’t stop thinking, that he could be getting worse.

It’s a different receptionist, today; she’s much chattier, and it’s a few minutes before he manages to break away from her and head up to Whizzer’s room. He prefers the other one, really. To his surprise, the other bed is still empty; he tugs back the curtain around Whizzer’s, trying to be quiet in case he’s still asleep.

He isn’t. In fact, he’s taking a selfie. So he must be feeling a little better, at least.

“Surprised you’re going to document that look,” Marvin says, grinning. Whizzer’s not looking quite so bad as yesterday, with some color in his cheeks now and, it looks like, access to shampoo at some point, but he’s hardly the put-together vision of a pretty boy he usually pulls off so well.

“Actually, the point is to look as pathetic as possible,” Whizzer says, tapping busily at his phone. “I’m supposed to go in to work tomorrow, so the worse I look, the better.”

Marvin pulls up the chair, which he’s starting to think of, dangerously, as his. “What are you going to do, text it to your boss?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Not everyone’s as much of a dinosaur as you, Marv,” he mutters, still not looking up from his phone. “I’m posting it to Instagram.”

“Insta-what?”

Finally, Whizzer looks up at him, exasperated. “Instagram? Photo site? Come on, you have a twelve-year-old son, you have to know these things.”

“Jason doesn’t go on photo sites. He just plays video games.”

Whizzer snorts. “Yeah? I bet he doesn’t stalk pretty girls on Twitter, either.”

“He’s too young for girls. No, let me have my denial,” he adds quickly, as Whizzer goes to disillusion him. “It’s the only thing that keeps me going, most days.”

Whizzer laughs, and he smiles, pleased with himself. Then the laugh becomes a cough, and the moment breaks.

“Why do you need to post it to Instagram?” he asks, when the cough has settled.

“My boss follows me,” Whizzer explains tiredly. “Dunno how he found me, but he started making comments, when I posted one too many photos in bars.” He pauses to take a breath. “Now he thinks I’m some alcoholic who’s too hungover too often to work.”

“Well, aren’t you?” Marvin teases, but he can see that it doesn’t land right. Whizzer looks hurt, then angry, his jaw shifting. “I’m kidding,” he adds hurriedly, before he can say anything. “I didn’t mean it.”

“You never do, do you?”

He draws back, stung. “What does that mean?”

But Whizzer shakes his head, his anger fading as fast as it came. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, what did you—”

“Marvin, I’m sick and I’m cranky,” Whizzer cuts him off. “Just ignore me. I’m not good company right now.”

“Do you want me to go?” he asks quietly.

“No, I—” He shakes his head, his eyes lowered. “I’m sorry.”

Marvin looks him over, taking in the bags under his eyes, how hard he’s leaning back against the bed frame. “Maybe you should take a nap,” he says, only half-joking.

Whizzer coughs a laugh. “Maybe,” he admits.

He flicks him lightly on the shoulder. “So sleep, then.”

Whizzer looks at him, his eyes oddly vulnerable. “Won’t you get bored?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, smiling. “Jason taught me how to download ebooks on my phone.” That had been a fun afternoon. He’s honestly surprised that they both survived it.

“Wow, a real technological wonder,” Whizzer says dryly. “Who knows, you might even learn about social media one of these days.”

“I’m in advertising,” Marvin reminds him. “I know all about social media.”

“Then why don’t you know about Instagram?”

“... Okay, so I mostly let the kids handle that part of things,” he admits. “What can I say, I’m an old man.”

“You’re in your mid-thirties, Marv, that’s hardly old,” Whizzer says, amused.

“I’m nearly forty.”

“You’re thirty-seven.”

“Like I said, nearly forty.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Okay, grandpa. You know, I’m not that much younger than you, and I keep up just fine.”

“Please. You’re barely out of your twenties. You’re basically still in diapers.”

Whizzer laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “I’m not actually a kid, Marvin.” There’s a warning in his tone.

Sensing dangerous ground, Marvin retreats. He’s not up for a fight right now, and he knows for a fact Whizzer isn’t. “I know that.” He tries a smile, hoping it looks natural and not placating. “Are you gonna go to sleep?”

It’s a poor deflection, but Whizzer just sighs, nodding tiredly. “Yeah. If you don’t mind?”

“Of course not. You want me to lower the bed for you?”

“It’s fine. I’ll probably wake up in a little while anyway.” He smiles ruefully. “Hopefully in a better mood.”

“Whiz, it’s okay to be cranky,” Marvin says gently. He gestures at the bed, the machines, the sterile room. Whizzer himself, looking just about ready to cry or pass out or both. “I get it.”

Whizzer closes his eyes, but he’s pretty sure it’s less to sleep and more to hide his expression. “Don’t be nice to me,” he murmurs, so low he almost doesn’t hear him. “I can’t handle that right now.”

Marvin’s not entirely sure what that means, but Whizzer sounds oddly sincere, and if he just needs a touch of normality in this horrible place… “Okay, you’re an ass,” he says. Whizzer opens his eyes, and Marvin winks at him. “Is that better?”

“Much.” He smiles, sleepy and tender. Marvin’s heart pangs.

“Go to sleep,” he says, as Whizzer yawns. He nods, settling back against the bed and closing his eyes.

Marvin turns to his phone, digging out his ebook from the confusing array of apps Jason keeps installing for him despite his protests. He still doesn’t know what half of them do. Then he pauses, struck by an idea. Glancing up to make sure Whizzer’s eyes are still closed, he types quickly: _How do you use Instagram?_

As always, Jason’s response is so fast that Marvin’s certain he must be literally attached to his phone: _u dont_

_Come on, teach your old man something new._

_no way dad_

_Hey, you taught me the book thing! How hard can it be?_

_the book thing gave me gray hairs n im only 12_

He laughs, throwing a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. Guiltily, he looks up at Whizzer, but he hasn’t stirred, his face blank and peaceful. A rush of something warm, something almost painfully tender, sweeps over him at the sight. He sighs, looking back down at his phone. He didn’t even notice that Jason texted him again: _hows whizzer?_

 _Doing better_ , he types. He smiles at the happy face Jason promptly texts back.

He pulls his book back up; he can always make one of the kids at work show him the Instagram thing. Hey, maybe if he’s lucky his boss will take it for initiative. Maybe. One can always hope.

He’s 30 pages in to a surprisingly engaging biography on Louis Brandeis when Whizzer calls softly: “Marvin?”

He startles. He’d thought Whizzer would be completely out by now. “Yeah, kiddo?”

There’s a pause, and then he says, sounding more than half asleep, “‘m not an alcoholic.”

Marvin winces. “I know.”

“Dated a guy who was, once.” He feels a swell of irrational jealousy that he quickly pushes down. “Didn’t like ‘im much.”

“Then why’d you date him?”

“Needed money,” Whizzer sighs. “Was a long time ago.”

He resists the impulse to ask how long. “Go to sleep, Whiz.”

“Wait,” he says. “‘m tryin’ to tell you something.”

“You can tell me when you’re more awake,” he says, smiling.

But Whizzer rocks his head against the pillow in a clear _no_. “Tellin’ you now,” he insists, his eyes half-open.

“Whiz…”

“No, listen. Jus’ listen.”

“Okay. I’m listening.”

“‘m not a kid,” Whizzer says, with surprising force considering he’s so tired he’s slurring his words. “‘n I don’ need anybody’s help.”

That’s demonstrably untrue, and also pretty hurtful, considering that Marvin would like to think he’s helping at least a little. But Whizzer does this: he draws him in, and then at the very last moment he spits him out. It’s just that Marvin had thought things had changed enough, they both had changed enough, that maybe this pattern would have too.

“Whiz,” he sighs; it’s hard to be mad when Whizzer is lying there more asleep than awake, and painfully sick to boot, but he can’t just let it go. Not this time around. “It’s not—”

“‘m glad you’re here,” Whizzer interrupts. His words are barely more than a whisper, but they stop him in his tracks. In all their time together, even when they were living together, that’s not a sentiment he’s ever heard from him before.

So maybe it has changed, then. Not enough, not yet. But…

He sighs, getting up from the chair to sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re a pain in the ass,” he says, brushing a hand through Whizzer’s hair. Whizzer hums softly, his eyes closing. “But I’m glad I’m here, too.”

* * *

He wakes again a little before six. By then Marvin’s back in the chair, halfway through the biography, and just starting to get hungry enough to consider dinner. Whizzer opens his eyes with a groan just as Marvin’s stomach lets out a groan of its own.

“I know that sound,” Whizzer says, groggy but already prepared with a gibe. “That’s not a good sound.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marvin says, and Whizzer laughs, which of course becomes a cough. He waits it out, pouring out some water to pass to him when it’s done. “How are you feeling?”

Whizzer sips at the water and doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. “Was I talking to you?” he rasps instead. “Before I fell asleep?”

“Yeah, you were,” he says. “Drink a little more of that. Why?”

“Couldn’t tell if I dreamt it.” He sets the water down, the cup still half full. “What did I say?”

He’s actually surprised he doesn’t remember. But then, he was basically talking in his sleep at that point. “You told me that you weren’t a kid, and that you didn’t need anybody’s help.” There’s a sourness in his tone that he hopes isn’t obvious.

It must be; Whizzer looks away, his face contrite. “Well, that’s clearly not true,” he murmurs, gesturing with a grimace at the hospital bed. He pulls in a breath to say something else, but Marvin interrupts him:

“And then you said you were glad I’m here.”

“Oh.” To Marvin’s utter delight, he blushes. It’s pretty damn cute. “I am,” he mumbles, looking down at the sheets.

Marvin smiles, trying to catch his eye. “I am too,” he says again.

His stomach takes that moment to pitch in again and he stands, stretching his arms over his head. He just barely catches, out of the corner of his eye, the appreciative look Whizzer sends his body. He bites back a grin, pleased; it’s good to know he hasn’t suddenly become hideous, at least, over their time apart.

“I guess I’ll order something up here,” he says, crossing over to the phone. “That’s what I did with Jason yesterday. What?” he adds to Whizzer’s look.

“Jason was here, too?” He looks embarrassed, even almost shy.

“Only for a little bit,” he admits. “I called Trina to come get him.”

“Oh, great,” Whizzer huffs. “Even better.”

Marvin frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”

“She didn’t come up here, did she?” He’s not sure he’s ever seen him look so uncomfortable.

“No, of course not,” he reassures him hastily. “She just picked him up downstairs.”

He nods, still looking miserable. “How angry was she?”

He hesitates a moment too long, and Whizzer groans. “Shit. I’m sorry, Marvin.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I know the weekends are your time with Jason. He’s talked about it before.”

“Jason wanted to see you,” Marvin says honestly. “I offered him to do something else. He wanted to visit you.”

“And then I was…”

“Not up for visitors, yeah.” He looks at him steadily. “That’s not your fault.”

Whizzer ignores this, avoiding his eyes. “Did Trina say anything?”

He’d forgotten about this, about Whizzer’s strange hang-up over Trina. It used to make him crazy, how badly Whizzer wanted her to like him. At first, he’d thought it was just a way for the other man to punish him, to keep him on edge lest he ruin their secret and destroy Marvin’s entire life. Then, after she caught them and that happened anyway, he’d seen it as equal parts manipulative and pathetic, a sad example of ego and anxiety. He’d had no patience for it, back then; Trina didn’t belong to Whizzer, like she belonged to him. Her attention, her affection, should rightfully be his—Whizzer, as concerning her, was just a distraction from that point.

He regrets a lot about those days.

“She said a lot of things,” he says carefully. “But about me, not you.” Not entirely true, but Whizzer’s already looking pained enough; he doesn’t need to know the whole conversation.

“Like what?”

“Just things. It doesn’t matter.” Whizzer huffs again, and he frowns. “Look, Whiz, none of this is your fault.”

“The thing is,” Whizzer says, still not looking at him, “it kind of _is_ my fault.”

Marvin stares at him, incredulous. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Now he’s getting angry, looking up at last, his eyes narrowed and cold. “You know what this disease is. You know how it spreads. Hell, you were the one always yelling at me to stop screwing around so much! Must be nice to be proven right, huh?”

Marvin feels like he’s been kicked in the stomach. “Whizzer,” he says quietly, “if you think there’s any part of me that’s somehow  _happy_ this has happened to you, then you don’t know me at all.”

Whizzer looks away, but not before Marvin catches the rising shame in his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and then he’s coughing, because he can’t even fight anymore without his body shutting him back down. Marvin’s not blind: he knows how frustrated Whizzer is, who’s always been intensely physical, always valued his own fitness and physique. To lose that, to be so suddenly and thoroughly weakened, must be devastating for him, and he’s always been proud. But he can’t just keep ignoring all these little digs, either.

He waits out the coughing, holding out the water again when he’s finished. “I know we have a lot of… unresolved shit, between us,” he starts, as Whizzer sips at the glass. “But I was kinda hoping that we could, I don’t know.” He shrugs, watching Whizzer put the glass back down. “Maybe be friends. Now that we’ve both grown up a little.”

God, Whizzer looks like he’s going to cry. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, I’d—that would be good. Yeah.”

“But you’ve gotta trust me a little,” he continues. “And I know that, from me, that’s asking a lot, but—”

“No,” Whizzer interrupts him. “No, you’ve been—it’s not you, Marvin. I’m sorry. I’m an ass.”

“You’re a little shit,” Marvin agrees, smiling. He holds out his hand. “Friends?”

Whizzer takes it, shaking it firmly, even as he bites back a smile at the cheesiness. “Friends.”

“Good.” He squeezes his hand, then reluctantly lets it go. “I’m gonna text Cordelia. Maybe you’ll feel a little better once you’ve had something to eat.”

Whizzer doesn’t look convinced, but he says nothing as Marvin pulls out his phone. He sends a quick text, then turns back to Whizzer, who’s watching him with a serious expression.

“What?” he says, a little unnerved.

“Marvin,” he starts, “you should know that I—”

“Hello!” Charlotte calls, marching in the door. “Look what I brought!”

“She brought me,” Cordelia says with a giggle. “And I brought this!” She holds up a thermos, hopefully containing a good amount of soup. Marvin’s stomach grumbles again.

Whizzer’s attempting to straighten up in the bed; Marvin reaches down to adjust the pillow behind him, ignoring the way Whizzer bats ineffectually at his hands. He looks back up: Cordelia’s watching them with a meltingly soft expression, but then, she looks like that whenever she sees a cat video, too. Charlotte looks like she’s trying very hard not to roll her eyes.

“Good timing,” Marvin says. “I just texted you.”

“Oh!” Cordelia pulls out her phone, nearly dropping the thermos. “I thought I felt it buzz. It’s on vibrate because I was with clients earlier.”

“How’d that go?” he asks, moving out of her way as she sets the thermos down on the table and unscrews the lid.

“Pretty good!” she says, pouring carefully. “I may be getting into the Bar Mitzvah circle soon!” She gives him a significant look.

“Hey, I already told you,” he says with a laugh. “Let us fight over the venue first, then I’ll talk Trina into it.”

Cordelia holds out the soup with a flourish to Whizzer. “There you are! Try this, and then tell me I shouldn’t cater Jason’s Bar Mitzvah!”

Whizzer smiles politely, taking it from her. He looks… unenthusiastic. But Marvin knows him: he won’t refuse it, not and risk upsetting her. It’s a little strange how someone with such a smart mouth on him can care so much what other people think.

He takes a sip, then smiles at her, that sweet, boyish smile that lights up his whole face. “It’s good,” he says. “Thank you.”

And just like that, Cordelia is in love. Not that he can blame her. He’s fallen pretty hard, himself.

“I’ll bring some by whenever you want,” she promises him. “Oh! And you can try out my canadelach, too! Ooh, and I thought maybe I’d try some brisket, later this week—”

“Delia,” Charlotte interrupts, grinning. “Let the poor boy drink his soup.”

“Right,” Cordelia says, as Whizzer hastily takes another sip; he’d been watching her with growing horror, which he deftly hides behind the cup. Marvin tries not to laugh—Cordelia can be a lot, when she’s excited.

“But you’ll try my brisket, right Marvin?” she says to him, and suddenly it’s a lot less funny. When did she say she was making that? End of this week? Maybe he’ll pull a Mendel, go vegetarian. It can’t be too hard, right?

“Right,” he says weakly.

Charlotte looks at him knowingly. He’d wonder how she does it, but then, half the time she’s stuck here during dinner hours anyway. He knows Cordelia sends leftovers in with her, but he’d bet she spends plenty of time in the cafeteria when she can get away with it. He’s sure she’ll be here whatever day the Great Brisket Adventure happens.

Actually, now that he thinks of it, he’ll probably be here, too. It’s not like Whizzer is going to miraculously recover by Friday, after all.

He frowns, looking back at him. He’s still holding the soup, staring off at nothing, his eyes unfocused. Marvin bites his lip, reaching out to touch him lightly on the shoulder. “Have a little more of that,” he urges.

Whizzer startles, then looks down at the soup, sloshing it a little in the cup. “I’m not that hungry,” he tries.

His frown deepens, his brow creasing with worry. How much has he been eating, lately? He’s already so much thinner than he should be; he can’t afford to lose more weight. “You’ve only had a couple sips,” he says. “Try a little more.”

Whizzer sighs, and then he coughs. Marvin takes the soup from him quickly before he can spill it.

He glances at Charlotte, who’s watching Whizzer cough with professional concern. He doesn’t know how she does this, all day, every day. Watching people get sick, watching them deteriorate. Sure, it must be nice when they get better, he supposes. But when they don’t…

No. He’s not going there.

He sits on the edge of the bed, as the last of Whizzer’s coughs rattle through him. “Come on,” he says, holding out the soup. “I bet you ten bucks you can’t finish it.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, but he takes it. “You can’t dare me to eat, Marvin,” he croaks.

Marvin grins, raising his eyebrows in challenge. “So I win, then.”

“Jesus christ, what are you, five?” But he sips at the soup, like Marvin knew he would.

“Men,” Charlotte mutters from behind him. He pretends not to hear her.

Whizzer makes it through another minute or so of careful swallowing before he lowers the cup, his eyelids starting to drag when he blinks. “I forfeit,” he murmurs, leaning back as Marvin takes it from him. “Can’t do anymore.”

The cup isn’t even half empty. Marvin looks up at Charlotte, who’s moved over to stand with Cordelia, her arm around her wife’s waist. She shakes her head, her eyes sympathetic. As much as he doesn’t want to, he can read her look: _Can’t force him, Marvin._

“Okay,” he says quietly. He passes the cup back to Cordelia, who walks over to take it from him. Whizzer’s fighting to stay awake and losing, his head sinking against the pillow. “Okay, kid. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Whizzer can’t keep his eyes open, and it’s horrible, how much such a tiny thing has knocked him out. He used to stay up half the night, dancing, drinking, driving Marvin wild. Now he can’t even get through half an hour and a cup of soup.

He sighs, pulling the blanket up to cover Whizzer’s shoulders. Some kind nurse has gotten him a second one, since he’s too tall for just the one to cover him entirely. Maybe tomorrow he’ll bring him another one, a heavier one. The blankets here are pretty thin; he might be getting cold.

He stands, and Charlotte and Cordelia both smile at him, making him wonder just how pathetic he must look. “Let’s go,” he says quietly, and Cordelia nods, the thermos back in her hands. Charlotte reaches out for the bed’s remote, lowering it slowly until Whizzer’s not quite lying flat but at least not mostly upright. He doesn’t wake. There’s another thing that’s changed: it used to be that the slightest noise, the tiniest movement could disturb him from his sleep, making it fairly difficult on workday mornings when Whizzer’d been up late the night before and didn’t appreciate his 5:00 alarm. But now he doubts a bomb going off would wake him.

He tears his eyes away, forcing himself to head to the door. If things were different, if he knew Whizzer wouldn’t mind, maybe he would stay the night. Keep watch over him, make sure he was comfortable, that he didn’t need anything. But he’s not his boyfriend, after all. And Whizzer has made it clear today that he doesn’t appreciate the fussing.

Charlotte and Cordelia follow him out into the hallway, Cordelia pulling the curtain closed behind her. At the door, he pauses, noticing again that the other bed is empty. “Is that normal?” he asks Charlotte, gesturing at it. His voice is a little thick in his throat; he coughs once to clear it. “For no one to be there?”

He can tell right away that she didn’t want him to ask. She hesitates, and he can see her weighing how much she should tell him. “No,” she says finally. “It’s not normal.”

He waits. Charlotte always divulges more when she isn’t being pressed.

“Luis—Dr. Ramirez—is keeping him a little isolated,” she says, after a long moment. “As much as he can, without putting him in the ICU. He’s just being cautious,” she adds quickly, to Marvin’s look of horror. “It’s not—”

“The ICU?” Marvin interrupts. “He’s not—is he—?”

“No, he doesn’t need intensive care,” she hastens to reassure him. “It’s more about trying to keep him from other contagions.”

Oh, great, yet another thing he didn’t even know he needed to be worrying about.

“Marvin,” she explains quickly, “right now his immune system is shot. It’s going to build back up, with the medication he’s on, but in the meantime he’s a lot more susceptible to infections than a healthy person like you or me. So Luis doesn’t want him to be around other sick people right now, which, as you can imagine, can get a little difficult in a hospital. The best he can do is try to keep that bed empty.”

“Then why doesn’t he have a private room?” he demands.

“Money,” she says succinctly. “Private rooms cost money. And, not for nothing, so do empty beds. Every night there’s no one here, the administrators are losing money, and they’re pissed. But Luis won’t budge.”

“Good,” Marvin says tightly.

“Yes, but Marvin, he can’t hold out forever,” Charlotte warns him. “They’re humoring him for now, because he’s a damn good doctor. But the minute they really need an open bed…”

He turns away, anger crackling in his jaw, in his fists. This isn’t Charlotte’s fault, and the last thing he wants is to lash out at her. But goddamn if he doesn’t want to destroy something right now.

“We’re going to go out to dinner,” Cordelia says softly from behind him. For a non-Jew, she sure does seem to have absorbed the mentality that everything can be solved with food. “Wanna come?”

“No thanks,” he says, keeping his voice calm with an effort. “Have a great date night. I’ve got some shows I want to catch up on.”

“Okay,” she says, and if she sounds a little disappointed, well. He’s not going to worry about that right now.

There’s too much else to worry about.

“Try to relax tonight, Marvin,” Charlotte says, and he turns back around, catching the edge of her warm smile. “You’re going to give yourself migraines, the way you’re going.”

He laughs, a little wildly. “He’s always given me migraines. I don’t see why that should change now.”

She laughs, then, to his surprise, pulls him in for a hug. Charlotte’s not much of a hugger, generally, and honestly, neither is he. But he can’t deny that he melts a little into her embrace.

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself,” she says, pulling back with a firm pat to his shoulder. “You matter to us, Marvin. And you matter to him, too.”

He looks away, swallowing hard. He’ll never understand what they see in him, these people in his life who forgive him so much. But she’s right: he needs to relax, to let himself unwind. Whizzer needs him at his best.

“Come on,” Cordelia says, taking his hand. “We’ll walk you to your car.”

He looks back once, at the curtain, drawn and somber around Whizzer’s bed. And then he takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

He lets them lead him out.


	5. Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As predicted, this has pretty much taken over my original work, lol. So we're back to weekly-ish updates :).
> 
> Trigger warning again this chapter for low appetite and weight loss, plus a brief discussion of nausea. I'm going to go ahead and tag the fic with that because it's going to keep coming up from now on. (Also, apologies to anyone who's ever been on Ensure for bringing back some horrible memories.)
> 
> Obligatory note that I am not a doctor (nor a photographer).

Instagram ends up being a lot easier to use than he thought. And Whizzer isn’t hard to find: his account is under his name, and it isn’t like there are a lot of Whizzer Browns in the world.

Marvin scrolls idly through his page, which is half selfies of him in various tight-fitting outfits and half artistically composed shots of areas around the city: parks, bars, the busy, dirty streets. They’re beautiful, really, drenched in color and light, so that it takes him a moment to work out what’s so strange about them: there aren’t any people. They’re motion blurs and building facades, streaked lights at night and empty bar stools. Through Whizzer’s lens, New York City is a dazzling, disorienting place, and weirdly empty.

It’s discomfiting, so he turns his attention to the selfies, where, predictably, Whizzer is hot and knows it, pouting into the camera. Most of them are taken in mirrors, modeling different expensive clothes, but a fair amount of them are him in bars, a drink in his hand and a guy on his arm. Given the number of them, he must not have been lacking for company, this past year and change. He wonders if there’s a single bar in the city where he _hasn’t_ gotten some rich older man to take him home at the end of the night.

He’s souring, just like Whizzer had always accused him of doing, and anyway he’s meant to be working. It doesn’t matter what his ex has been up to in the year and a half since they’ve last seen each other. If he wants to take vain pictures of himself in bars and hook up with strangers, that’s his prerogative. Marvin doesn’t own him. He never had, which had always been the problem.

He sighs, going to close the page, but something catches his eye.

He’s scrolled down enough that he’s gotten through a fair amount of posts, from the selfie at the hospital through a series of those strange, overbright landscapes that make him so uncomfortable. Throughout all of it, the only consistent face has been Whizzer’s; there have been men who appeared in one picture, maybe two, but no others. And then he suddenly sees, at the very bottom of his screen, a familiar head of wavy brown hair.

He clicks on it, his throat suddenly tight, and yes: it’s him.

And not just one picture of him, either, he discovers, as he continues scrolling. There aren’t tons of them, exactly, but in between the landscapes and the selfies, there are a few: him smiling, looking down at something out of frame; him with his hands on his hips, pursing his lips in annoyance; him laughing with his head thrown back, grabbing onto the arm of the couch. There’s one where he looks angry, caught mid-speech. Another where he’s smirking, one eyebrow raised, holding out an arm to the camera. To the person behind it.

He stops, uncertain what to think. There are comments on the photos, strangers asking about him ( _whos the lucky guy????_ ) and judging him ( _7/10, but I’ll bump it up to an 8 for those arms_ ). He should be angry, shouldn’t he? He never gave Whizzer permission to post these pictures. He didn’t even know he was doing it.

And yet…

He closes the page, forces himself to get back to work. But for the rest of the day, no matter what he does, he can’t get those photos out of his head.

* * *

At a quarter to five, he’s made enough progress on the Applebaum campaign that Kathleen is reasonably satisfied with him. He hates this time of year; normally, as long as he shows up on time and hits all his deadlines, no one could care less if leaves a little early or takes a longer lunch break. But September into October is always crunch time, when the fiscal year ends and everyone is up for review. Including Kathleen, so he supposes he can’t blame her for being a little on edge.

He hasn’t heard from Whizzer all day, which is making him more nervous than he wants to admit. As his boss leaves his office, he pulls out his phone, fiddling with it anxiously. Is Whizzer asleep? Does he not want to hear from him?

Has something gone wrong?

 _You’re not going to know until you ask, Marvin_ , scolds an inner voice that sounds suspiciously like Charlotte’s. He sighs, frustrated with himself. Before he can talk himself out of it, he types quickly: _Hey. You up for a visit?_

The reply is almost immediate: _please. im bored out of my mind._

Marvin smiles. _Be there soon._

* * *

The nurse is there, when he gets in: Amanda, the same one from the other day. She smiles at him, replacing a blood pressure cuff on the wall. “Just finishing up a vitals check,” she says cheerfully. “Temperature’s still a little elevated, but otherwise we’re coming along nicely.”

Marvin frowns. “He’s running a fever?” Whizzer’s not flushed; if anything, he’s worryingly pale.

“ _He’s_ right here,” Whizzer says pointedly.

“Hi,” Marvin says to him, dropping into his chair. He turns back to the nurse. “Has he eaten anything today?”

Amanda grins, raising her eyebrows at Whizzer. “See, I told you he’d be worried, didn’t I?”

“Ugh, Amanda, don’t,” Whizzer says, making a face, but Marvin can see how embarrassed he is beneath it.

Marvin winks at her. “Talking about me, were you?”

“Yeah, I was telling her what a pain in the ass you are,” Whizzer says. Marvin feigns hurt, putting his hand to his chest. “And I _did_ eat, so there.”

“About half as much as he should be,” Amanda chimes in. “Maybe you’ll have better luck with him.”

Marvin smiles. “I have my tricks.”

“Don’t conspire over my poor sick body,” Whizzer complains.

“Oh, your ‘poor sick body,’ is it? That’s not what you were saying when you insisted you could walk to the bathroom by yourself—”

“Alright, alright,” Whizzer says hastily. “I’m a terrible patient, I get it. God, you’re worse than him.”

“Hey,” Marvin says, offended. “No one’s allowed to be worse than me. I’m going to have to step up my game.”

Whizzer groans, throwing his hands over his face. Marvin and Amanda grin at each other.

“Can you both just go and leave me to die in peace,” Whizzer grumbles through his hands.

“ _Hey._ ” Marvin turns to him, gripping his arms tightly, pulling them down so he can look him in the eye. “You’re _not_ dying,” he says fiercely.

Whizzer looks startled, a little uncertain. “I know. I was just joking.”

Marvin shakes his head. “Don’t joke about that.”

Whizzer looks back at him with an expression Marvin’s never seen before on his face: like he’s confused, but not surprised; like he’s figuring something out. In his thin, pale face his eyes look so much bigger, circled in gray and gleaming with what is probably fever but looks, just at this moment, like tenderness.

Amanda clears her throat, breaking their gazes. “Well, I’m all set here,” she says.

“Thank you, Amanda,” Whizzer says, with one of his heart-melting smiles.

She winks at him. “You’re welcome, honey. I’ll come check on you later.”

He turns back to Whizzer as she leaves, carefully letting go of where he’s still holding onto his arms. “You’ve got her eating out of your hands,” he says, sitting back in the chair. “Not that I’m surprised.”

“It’s my natural charm,” Whizzer says, but he looks… distant. Remembering last night, his unfocused gaze as he stared off at nothing, Marvin snaps his fingers, jolting him from his daze.

“Hey. You still with me?”

“Yeah,” Whizzer says. He shakes his head, blinking hard. “Yeah, sorry, I… what were you saying?”

He’s going to get wrinkles here soon, with all the frowning he’s been doing lately. “Nothing important.” He touches his hand, lightly. “You okay? You need a nap?”

“Marvin, stop stressing.” He flashes another thousand-watt smile, the same one he used on the nurse. “I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t work on me,” Marvin lies.

Whizzer drops the smile, tilting his head in confusion. “What doesn’t?”

“That cute smile,” he says, as Whizzer starts to cough. “Where your whole face lights up, and your eyes get all crinkly, and then everybody rushes to do whatever you want.”

He can’t be sure, what with the coughing, but he thinks Whizzer’s laughing, too.

Finally the cough dies down, and Whizzer sips obediently at the water Marvin presses into his hands. “You think I’m cute?” he says coyly, once he’s regained his voice and put the water back down.

Marvin rolls his eyes. “You _know_ I think you’re cute.”

“Aww.” His voice is teasing, light, but there’s an undercurrent there, too. He coughs again, once, harsh and rough.

“What’s wrong?” Marvin says frankly.

He looks startled. “What do you mean?”

“You look like you’re thinking pretty hard about something, there. And that’s not really like you, so…”

Whizzer glares at him. “Ha ha.”

He grins. “So? What’s up?”

Whizzer looks away, his fingers starting to pick nervously at the bedsheets. “Nothing. Just been thinking.”

“About…?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs, one-shouldered. “What you said.”

“What I said when?”

“About…” He sighs. “Just, look, Marvin, when you said… yesterday… and then, just now…”

“Whizzer.” He leans forward, covering Whizzer’s hand with his own to hold it still. “Spit it out.”

Whizzer takes a breath, and then he blurts out: “You’d really care if I died, wouldn’t you?”

“What?” Marvin reels back, shocked. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

Whizzer looks like he didn’t entirely mean to say it. He shrugs, embarrassed. “I don’t know. Just thinking about it.”

“Jesus, Whizzer.” He squeezes his hand, tightly. “Of course I’d care. I can’t believe you had to ask.”

“I mean, I didn’t think you’d be like fuck that guy, glad he’s dead, or anything.”

Marvin laughs despite himself. “Jesus christ.”

“Just, I don’t know.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his free hand. “Maybe you’d be sad for a minute, and you’d think, like, what a waste of a damn hot body, and then you’d go back to your boyfriend and forget all about it.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” Marvin says. Which, wow, that is _not_ the point he should be focusing on, here, so he clears his throat and adds quickly, “I mean, look, Whiz, I know it ended badly. And I’m really sorry—”

“No, don’t—”

“Just let me finish.” He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Whizzer, I’m so sorry for how I treated you. And I hope you know that—”

“Marvin—”

“Just let me—I hope you know that I regret—”

“Marvin, please, stop.” Whizzer’s eyes are wide and pained, and he’s shaking his head almost compulsively, like he’s trying to shake his words away. “Please, just… not now.”

His heart sinks down to the floor, but he nods. “Okay,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Whizzer smiles at him, sweet and sad. “You don’t get it,” he says. “I forgive you. I forgave you a long time ago. I just… don’t want to go there right now.”

As much as he swells with relief at his words, Whizzer’s right: he doesn’t get it. But he’ll let it go if that’s what he wants from him. “Alright.”

But Whizzer sighs, coughing once. “You just… Marvin, look… you were right about me.”

He looks up at him, confused. “What?”

Whizzer’s looking away, now, refusing to meet his eyes. “Yesterday, when you kept saying it wasn’t my fault—”

“It isn’t—”

“It _is_.” Now he looks up, his eyes suddenly fierce. “Marvin, it _is_. Do you know what Ramirez told me?” Marvin shakes his head, watching uneasily as his heart rate on the monitor starts to climb. “He said that I could have had this for years. Up to ten, maybe.” He stops to cough, briefly, then looks Marvin hard in the eyes. “Do you know how many men I’ve slept with in the past ten years?”

That’s not a number Marvin really wants to contemplate.

“Hundreds,” Whizzer says. “Literally hundreds. Most of them, I didn’t even know their _names_.”

“Whizzer…”

“And I used condoms, of course I did, but they _break_ , or there are holes, or…” He swallows, his voice cracking. “It’s my own fucking fault,” he says, and he’s trying to sound forceful, but instead he sounds so small. “And what’s worse—all those men—how many of them have I—”

“Whoa, okay, no,” Marvin says. “Listen, Whiz, you—look, I know you like to have fun—”

Whizzer snorts. “That’s not what you used to call it.”

“I used to be a dick,” Marvin says hotly. “Whatever I said in the past—”

“You said I was a slut.” Marvin recoils, shame winding tight around his throat. “And you were right.”

“No—”

“‘Everything is a game to you, isn’t it? It’s all just one big joke,’” Whizzer quotes him ruthlessly. “You were _right_ , Marvin—I was a good-for-nothing pretty boy, I should have just stayed home and—and done the laundry—”

“Whizzer, please,” Marvin begs. “Please, I was such an asshole, I’m so sorry—”

“I got what I deserved, didn’t I? I was stupid, and now I’m paying for it.”

“No,” Marvin says helplessly.

“I don’t know how to live like this,” Whizzer says. And then, to Marvin’s horror, he starts to cry.

“Oh, Whiz—baby, no—” _Shit,_ that just slipped out. But Whizzer doesn’t seem to have heard it, his face buried in his hands. “Hey, come on, it’s okay—”

“I don’t know what to do,” Whizzer sobs into his palms. “I can’t—I don’t know what—” He starts to cough, and now Marvin’s really getting alarmed. On the monitor, he can see his heart rate spiking, his oxygen levels starting to drop.

“Okay, it’s okay—” Goddammit, Whizzer’s gasping for air now, worse than he was the other day. He has to calm down, Marvin has to calm him down. He does the only thing he can think of: he climbs into the bed, pulling Whizzer into his arms.

He doesn’t stop crying, or coughing, but Marvin feels him clutching back. “Easy, easy,” he murmurs, stroking Whizzer’s hair as gently as he can manage. “Calm down, it’s okay, easy—”

“Sorry—I’m so sorry—” Whizzer gasps.

“Shhh, shhh.” Whizzer’s shuddering under his hands; he pulls him in closer, laying his head down against his chest. “Deep breaths,” he says, remembering Charlotte’s advice: _set a good example_. He takes a deep, exaggerated breath, letting it out slowly. “Like this, come on—” Another, Whizzer’s head rocking with the motion.

Thank god, he can feel him starting to calm, though whether it’s his influence or just sheer fatigue he can’t be sure. He’s too weak to cry like this, too sick to sustain it. Out of every awful thing this illness has done to him, that may actually be the worst.

He waits a moment to be sure it’s passed, carefully readjusting the cannula where it’s been jostled out of place. He’s still stroking his hair, and Whizzer is slowly relaxing, his body heavy and sprawled over his own. He thinks he might be falling asleep, actually, and while Marvin knows he needs his rest, still: “Whizzer,” he says quietly, gently lifting his chin with his hand. “Listen, did it ever occur to you that this is something that happened _to you?_ ”

Whizzer blinks up at him, still breathing hard. “What?”

He brushes his thumb over Whizzer’s cheek, where his tears have left glistening tracks on his skin. “You didn’t infect yourself, Whiz. And it’s a disease, not a punishment. Just like diabetes, or cancer, or that one Trina’s dad had where they had to take his spleen out.”

“I… I guess,” he says uncertainly. He lays his head back down, his eyes slipping closed.

“Ten years ago,” Marvin says quietly, “how old were you? 21?”

He feels him nod against his chest.

“You were just a kid. You didn’t know any better.” He rubs his back, remembering with a pang himself at 21, just a lost closet case with no concept of how he was going to survive the week, let alone an entire life. Only three years later he got his girlfriend pregnant, and that had been it: marriage, a cushy job, a son. He had been thrown into adulthood without any preparation, without any time to work out who he was.  

And he’d had his parents, at least: their money, if not their love. Whizzer had been kicked out at 16. He’d had nothing.

He wonders how it’s never occurred to him before to admire him for surviving it.

“This isn’t your fault, Whizzer,” he says again. “It isn’t anybody’s fault.” He’ll say it as many times as it takes to be sure that he believes it.

“'m so tired,” Whizzer mumbles into his chest.

He pats his back, lightly. “So sleep.” He can feel him stiffen, bracing for him to get up, off the bed and back into his chair. But Marvin doesn’t move. He can’t. He just… can’t let go right now.

After a moment, Whizzer relaxes, and Marvin smiles, rubbing gently at his back. It isn’t long before he’s completely sacked out, his body draped over him, his face buried in Marvin’s chest. It’s so much more intimate than all the things they’ve done together, in any bed they’ve shared.

Love is a horrible pulse in his throat, choking him even as it flushes through him. Friends, he reminds himself sternly. Whizzer agreed to be friends. And given how Marvin’s treated him, he’s surprised he even agreed to that much.

So he rubs his back, and doesn’t kiss his hair, and doesn’t hold him closer, and doesn’t cry. It's time he learns that what he covets, he doesn't always get to keep.

* * *

He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until there’s a hand on his shoulder gently waking him up. He startles, then immediately checks on Whizzer: he’s still out, still clinging to him even in his sleep. He looks up: Dr. Ramirez is standing over them, his face amused, edging on fond. “You know, technically,” he says, “we don’t really encourage visitors to share beds with the patients.”

Marvin makes a face at him, shifting carefully to try to sit up without disturbing Whizzer. “He was upset,” he says groggily. “Had to calm him down.”

Ramirez looks concerned, but there’s something else in his expression, too, something almost wistful. It clears quickly, his face smoothing into professional interest. “He was upset?”

“Yeah, about—” He stops, unsure what he should share. “About being sick. And—all of it.”

The doctor nods, his expression sympathetic. “It’s not an easy diagnosis to give,” he admits. “There’s still so much stigma and misinformation around the disease—I don’t blame him for being overwhelmed.”

“Yeah,” Marvin says. “Yeah, he’s—he’s not happy.”

“Listen, I don’t want to alarm you,” Ramirez says seriously. “But you should know that depression is pretty common in patients with HIV. I’m not saying there’s anything to be concerned about now,” he says, as Marvin opens his mouth. “A grieving process is normal, and it’s better for him to be expressing that than holding it in. I would just advise you to keep an eye on him, going forward. You would likely see the signs before anyone else would, since you two are… close.” He looks significantly at Whizzer’s arm, which Marvin has been stroking lightly without even realizing he was doing it. He feels his face warm, stilling his hand with an effort.

“You said something, the other day,” Marvin says, checking briefly to make sure Whizzer is still asleep. “About how he told me right away.”

“I did,” Ramirez says. He pulls up a chair: not Marvin’s, but the one by the computer in the back, settling in by the foot of the bed. It’s a little awkward, but Marvin can’t get up without risking waking Whizzer, so he stays where he is.

“What did you mean by that?”

“With the understanding that it’s none of my business and absolutely not my place to say?” Ramirez says, winking.

Marvin laughs. “Sure.”

“As I said, HIV—AIDS in particular—is a difficult diagnosis to give,” Ramirez starts. “People worry that they’re sick, that they’re contagious. That’s scary enough on its own. But then they start to think about their partners, and that can be devastating.”

Marvin looks down at Whizzer, sound asleep in his arms. There are still tear tracks glinting on his pale cheeks. “Yeah,” he says.

Ramirez nods. “Imagine how hard it would be,” he says, tactfully. “Feeling all that guilt, all that anxiety, then having to tell someone you care about that maybe they need to be worried, too. I don’t envy anyone being in that position.” He nods at Whizzer. “He’s a courageous man.”

“He is,” Marvin agrees, his throat tight. He looks down at him again, his still, white face, and his heart clenches painfully.

Ramirez smiles. “For what it’s worth,” he says. “He looks at you exactly the same way.”

Marvin looks up at him, feeling his pulse quicken. “What do you mean?”

“Marvin, I have ex-boyfriends,” Ramirez says, still with that tolerant smile. “Not a single one of them would act like either of the two of you have with each other.”

He’s saved from having to respond to that by Whizzer starting to stir, his head shifting against where it’s fallen down to his stomach. He brushes his hair from his face, leaning down to see if his eyes are open. “Hey, Whiz,” he says gently. “You waking up?”

“No,” Whizzer groans.

Marvin chuckles. “Think you could let me get up? Your head is heavy. And I don’t think the doctor approves.”

Whizzer cracks open his eyes, turning his head a fraction to take in Ramirez, sitting at the end of the bed. “Hi, Whizzer,” he says with a wave.

“Oh,” Whizzer says. He closes his eyes again.

“Come on,” Marvin says. Carefully, he raises Whizzer’s head off him, thankful when he finally starts to move on his own. He pats his shoulder as he stands up, stretching with a groan. The hospital bed isn’t the worst he’s ever slept in, but that doesn’t mean his back had a great time, either.

“I can hear your back popping from here, old man,” Whizzer says hoarsely. He’s sitting up, now, though just barely, looking half awake at best. “How long were you sitting there? What time is it?”

Marvin turns to Ramirez, sitting patiently in the chair. “It’s almost 7:00,” he says.

Which means he’s slept for almost two hours. The stress must really be getting to him.

Whizzer starts to cough, reaching for the water on the side table. Marvin passes it to him, taking his seat by the bed.

“How’s the chest pain?” the doctor asks him, once the coughing stops.

Whizzer shrugs, swallowing down some of the water. “Fine.”

“And the rash?”

He puts the cup back down. “It’s fine.”

Marvin rolls his eyes. “So, your chest hurts and the rash is bothering you,” he says dryly.

Whizzer scowls at him. “That’s not what I said.”

“Yeah, and you’re a liar.” He raises his eyebrows as Whizzer tries to stare him down. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Whizzer says immediately.

… Yeah, he doesn’t know what he expected.

Ramirez clears his throat. “Can I see the rash, Whizzer? Has it spread at all?”

Whizzer grimaces, but he rolls up the sleeve of his hospital gown. There’s a small patch of skin by his elbow that’s red and inflamed; he hisses a little as his sleeve brushes it.

“That is starting to look a little better,” the doctor says, pleased. “But I still want to keep a close eye on it, okay? Tell me or the nurses right away if it starts getting worse again. And keep taking the antihistamine, too.”

Whizzer makes a face.

“I know you don’t like it,” the doctor says patiently. “But we need to keep that rash under control. I don’t want to scare you, but there’s a rare side effect of the medication you’re on that can be very serious if it’s not treated immediately. We need to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Then why is he on that medication?” Marvin demands.

“Because it’s the best one for treating PCP,” Ramirez explains. “As long as that rash doesn’t spread, or start to bleed, I’d prefer to keep you on the Bactrim until the infection clears up. At that time, we might consider a different drug for prophylaxis. To protect you from getting infected again,” he explains to Whizzer’s blank look.

“Infected again?” Marvin asks in horror. “That could happen?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Generally speaking, PCP is a risk for anyone with a CD4 count below 200. We’d keep anyone in that range on a prophylaxis regimen until their counts increased.”

“And Whizzer’s is that low?”

Ramirez looks at Whizzer. “Are you okay with me telling him about this?”

Whizzer shrugs. “I don’t care.”

“Okay,” he says, turning back to Marvin. “Whizzer’s CD4 count is a little below 100. That makes him very susceptible to infection.”

Marvin swallows, remembering what Charlotte said. He looks over at the other bed, blessedly still empty.

“The ART he’s on will increase that number over time,” Ramirez says. “But until those counts go up, it’s better to be cautious, even when he does start feeling better.”

“Okay,” Marvin says reluctantly. The doctor turns back to Whizzer.

“Speaking of things you don’t like,” he says apologetically. “Let’s talk about your caloric intake.”

Whizzer groans. “Do we have to?” His eyes slide to Marvin.

“Would you like me to ask Marvin to leave?”

“No,” Whizzer says. Thankfully, because Marvin’s not entirely certain he would have anyway. “He’ll just worry more if he doesn’t hear it himself.”

Marvin blinks at him, surprised. That’s definitely true. But he didn’t think Whizzer would have thought of it, let alone indulged it.

“I know you,” Whizzer says simply. There’s a fond little smile at the corner of his mouth that Marvin finds he can’t look away from.

“As we’ve discussed,” Ramirez says, and Marvin turns back to him with a start. “You’re a little underweight, Whizzer, for your height and build, and especially with the PCP, your caloric needs are higher than normal. I’m hearing that you haven’t been finishing your meals.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I understand that you’re experiencing low appetite,” the doctor says patiently. “That’s why we’re trying to give you small, frequent meals instead of all at once. And the Ensure—”

“Ughh,” Whizzer groans.

“I know you don’t like the Ensure,” Ramirez says with a smile.

“Does anyone?”

He laughs. “No. But you still have to drink it.”

Oh, that’s a bad tactic. Telling Whizzer he has to do something is the easiest way to make sure he never does. “Tell you what,” Marvin says hastily. “If you drink the whole thing, I’ll buy you one of those fluffy blankets you like so much.”

Whizzer looks at him, considering. “Microplush fleece?”

“Whatever you want,” he promises.

“I should probably mention that you can’t bring in—” Ramirez starts, but Marvin cuts him off with an impatient gesture. Ramirez sighs, defeated. “If the nurses ask, I knew nothing about it,” he says long-sufferingly.

“Fine,” Whizzer says. “Bribe accepted. But I’m still going to complain about it.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Marvin says dryly.

“They should be bringing something by for you shortly,” Ramirez says to Whizzer. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow to see how you did.” He stands, stretching his arms behind his back. “Well, gentlemen, if you’re all set for the moment?”

Marvin looks at Whizzer, who shrugs. It seems to be the only way he actually communicates with the doctor.

“Yes, thank you,” Marvin says. “Have a good night.” Well, one of them should show some manners, at least.

“I’ll see you both tomorrow, then,” the doctor says, and walks out.

As soon as he’s gone, Marvin rounds on Whizzer. “Alright, spill. Why don’t you like him?”

Whizzer grimaces. “Why do you?”

“He’s a nice guy,” Marvin says. “And he’s helping you.”

“I guess,” Whizzer mutters.

Marvin smiles at him, perplexed. “What, did he insult your hair or something?”

“No, but I wouldn’t blame him if he did,” Whizzer says, reaching up a hand to tangle in it. “It’s a mess.”

“It looks fine,” Marvin assures him.

“No it doesn’t, but thanks for trying.” Whizzer sighs, coughs briefly. “I don’t like doctors, Marvin. You know that.”

“You seem okay with the nurses.”

“The nurses are actually helpful,” Whizzer says, with surprising force. “All Ramirez does is stop in to lecture me and give me more pills.”

“The pills are making you feel better.”

“No they’re not.”

Marvin frowns, laying the back of his hand on Whizzer’s forehead. “Hey, stop,” Whizzer complains, batting it away. “Fine, they’re helping, I’m just being a bitch.”

“You’re always a bitch,” Marvin says absently. “They’re not working?”

“No, they are, I guess,” Whizzer admits. “I just… kind of thought I’d be out of here by now.”

Marvin keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t think Whizzer wants to hear that he probably won’t be out of here for a good long while.

Whizzer shifts in the bed, stretching out his legs. “I just don’t get what’s so good about doctors,” he says.

Marvin shrugs. “Charlotte’s a doctor.”

“Charlotte is different.”

“Why?”

“She’s your friend.”

“She is,” Marvin agrees, touched. “She’s a great woman.”

“And she’s queer,” Whizzer adds as an afterthought.

Marvin laughs. “Oh, is that the criterion now? We like people based on how queer they are?”

“That’s always been the criterion.” He coughs, once. “Christ, I can’t believe you have me saying ‘criterion.’ Is that even a word?”

“It’s the singular form of ‘criteria.’ You know, I’m pretty sure Ramirez is queer.”

If he thinks that’s going to win him over, he’s proved wrong very quickly as Whizzer’s face darkens. “Oh, I _know_ Ramirez is queer.”

Marvin throws up his hands. “Are you going to tell me what your problem with him is?”

“No,” Whizzer says.

“Wait,” Marvin says, a horrible thought striking him. The way Whizzer had said _I_ _know_ …  “He didn’t hit on you, did he?”

“Jesus christ, Marvin, no, he didn’t hit on me. I’m an AIDS patient, remember? I may not like him, but that doesn’t mean he’s crazy.”

“Hey,” Marvin says. He leans forward, touching the back of Whizzer’s hand. “You’re not just some AIDS patient.”

“Marvin, I don’t want to shock you,” Whizzer says dryly. “But I am, in fact, a patient with AIDS.”

“Don’t be a smartass,” Marvin says. “I mean it. You’re a lot more than that.”

Whizzer looks away.

“Look,” Marvin says cautiously. The last thing he wants is a repeat of what happened earlier, but all the same, he can’t just let this go. Not and keep living with himself. “I know I’ve said a lot of horrible things to you, Whiz. And I’m so sorry—”

“Marvin—”

“Whizzer,” he says, firmly. “Let me say this.”

Whizzer says nothing, which he’s going to take as permission.

“I was so angry, back then,” Marvin starts. “Nothing was working the way it was supposed to—the way I thought it was supposed to. And I just… couldn’t let go of that. I was too scared to.”

“I know,” Whizzer says quietly.

“Whizzer, everything I said to you—all that horrible bullshit about you being—” He can’t even say it, the shame too thick in his throat. “None of it was true. None of it was even about you, not really. I was so mad at the world, at myself… I don’t think I even knew what I was saying, half the time.” Whizzer’s finally looking at him, now, and Marvin forces himself to look back. “I know it’s too late to take it back,” he says. “But I would if I could. You never deserved that, Whizzer. You deserved so much better than that.”

“You didn’t just insult me all the time, you know,” Whizzer says, half joking, half uncertain. “And it’s not like I didn’t hold my own, either.”

“I know,” Marvin says with a chuckle. He shakes his head. “But that’s not the point. I had no right to call you those things. It doesn’t matter what you said back.”

“But it matters what I did,” Whizzer says quietly.

“You told me when you moved in that you weren’t going to change,” Marvin reminds him. “It’s not your fault I didn’t take you at your word. And that’s not the point either.”

Whizzer looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “Then what’s the point?”

“The point is,” Marvin says, “you’re so much more than just a pretty boy, Whizzer. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You’re loyal, and passionate, and caring—”

“Stop,” Whizzer says. He sounds almost frightened, his eyes wide and bright. “Don’t.”

Marvin shakes his head. “I’ll stop if you really want me to,” he says. “But I mean it.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” Whizzer whispers, and Marvin’s heart is just one giant bruise, beating guilt and regret through all of his cracks.

“Because you deserve it,” he says roughly. “Because you always deserved it, and I have so much time to make up for.”

Whizzer turns away, closing his eyes against the wetness Marvin can see building there. He swallows, feeling his own eyes burn. He’s not sure he can ever forgive himself for not loving this man like he should have, while he still had the chance.

They don’t talk, for a while. Actually, Whizzer might fall asleep for a minute; he’s not entirely sure. The silence doesn’t break until a short, stout nurse walks in, carrying a tray of what looks—and smells—like some of the most unappetizing food Marvin’s ever seen. No wonder Whizzer hasn’t been finishing his meals; the dry slab of chicken and wet, greasy green beans are enough to make his own stomach turn.

“This is what they’ve been serving you?” he demands indignantly.

Whizzer starts, looking around at him, then at the tray. “Yup,” he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

The nurse doesn’t seem to appreciate this. “The doctor has ordered small meals for you,” he says. “So this is what you get.”

“The size isn’t the problem,” Marvin says, bristling.

The nurse sets down the tray on the rolling table in the corner, wheeling it into place. Along with the barely edible chicken and green beans, there’s a bottle of Ensure, which Marvin plucks off the tray to examine more closely.

“That’s for him,” the nurse says. “Not for you.”

“No, he can have it,” Whizzer says hastily.

Marvin glares at them both. “I just want to see what it is.”

“It’s for him,” the nurse says again.

Marvin and Whizzer exchange a glance: is this guy for real? “Uh, thanks for my dinner,” Whizzer says. “I guess.”

“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t move.

“I think he can take it from here,” Marvin says, none too kindly.

The nurse glares back at him. “I’ll come back in half an hour to get the tray.”

“Right,” Whizzer says. “Thanks.”

Finally, the nurse leaves, and Whizzer picks up the fork, poking unenthusiastically at the green beans.

“Here,” Marvin says, handing him the Ensure. “Drink your milkshake.”

Whizzer snorts. “That’s a word for it.” He twists off the lid, looking down at the bottle with disgust. “You’d better mean it about the blanket.”

Marvin chuckles. “What color do you want?”

“Honestly, I don’t even care,” Whizzer says, grimacing as he takes a sip. “Just make it warm.”

“You’re that cold?”

“I’m freezing,” he admits.

Marvin frowns. “Why haven’t they given you more blankets?”

“They already gave me an extra one,” Whizzer points out. “They don’t have unlimited amounts.” He takes another tiny sip.

“You’re never going to finish at that rate,” Marvin says.

Whizzer pouts up at him, turning the puppy eyes on full volume. “No,” Marvin says warningly. Quickly, before it actually starts to work, which it will if he keeps looking. “We have a deal.”

Whizzer turns off the puppy eyes, but not the pout. “You’re no fun.”

“So Jason tells me.” He nudges his arm. “Drink up.”

“Blech,” Whizzer says eloquently, but he takes a bigger swallow.

By the time the dour nurse comes back, he’s finished about half the bottle and taken a bite or two of the chicken. “He needs more time,” Marvin says, glancing up at the nurse.

He puts a hand on his hip. “I don’t have all day.”

“Then come back later,” Marvin growls.

“Marv,” Whizzer says. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, you need to finish your food,” Marvin says. “Come back later.”

The nurse sighs impatiently. “I need to finish my shift. I’ve only got a few more rooms left.”

“I’m not sure I can finish anyway,” Whizzer says softly.

“No,” Marvin says. There’s not much he can control, here; he can’t take away the pain, or the coughing, or give Whizzer his energy back. But he can at least make sure he eats something, dammit. “He can come back.”

“Marvin—”

“I’ll clear the tray myself if I have to. Come back later.”

“I’ll take yours last, then,” the nurse says grudgingly. “But I’m not staying late for you.”

“The hell is his problem?” Marvin says, as he leaves. “You’d think they’d want the patients to actually eat their goddamn food.”

To his surprise, Whizzer laughs. “It’s good to know some things don’t change,” he says, spearing a green bean with his fork. He smiles sweetly at Marvin. “You’re still an old grouch.”

“Eat your dinner,” Marvin grumbles.

He makes it through half the chicken and another quarter or so of the Ensure before he puts the bottle back down, his cheeks starting to tinge with green. “Can’t do anymore,” he gasps.

“Whoa, okay,” Marvin says. He stands quickly, rolling the tray away. “Are you gonna—”

“No, just…” He swallows, his throat working.

“Okay, don’t talk,” Marvin says hastily. “Here, I’ll call the nurse for you—” He jabs the call button.

Thankfully it’s Amanda who comes hurrying in, not the other nurse. She takes one look at Whizzer and pulls out a basin from beneath the bed, which he clutches tightly, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Let me get you something for the nausea,” she says, but Whizzer shakes his head.

“No more pills,” he says breathlessly.

“Don’t talk.” Marvin turns to Amanda, his jaw tight. “Does this happen every time?”

“No,” she tells him, “he usually doesn’t get this far. You really do have your tricks.”

“For better or worse,” he mutters.

Whizzer pushes the basin away, his skin fading back to sickly white. “Think ‘m okay,” he gets out.

Amanda takes the basin back, tucking it under the bed with a glance at Marvin to make sure he knows where it is. “I know you don’t want more pills, Whizzer,” she starts, “but if the nausea is going to keep you from eating—”

“ _No,_ ” Whizzer says. He sounds genuinely angry, his eyes flashing. “No more.”

Amanda looks at Marvin for help, exactly like he hoped she wouldn’t. Bribing Whizzer with a blanket is one thing, but this…

Whizzer glowers at him, and Marvin wonders if it’s cowardice or just good strategy to retreat from a battle he knows he won’t win. He turns to Amanda, shaking his head slowly.

She doesn’t look pleased, but like him, she’s not going to fight a losing battle. Or, at least, she won’t do it so overtly. A look of mutual understanding passes between them.

Whizzer leans back against the bed, closing his eyes. “‘m I done?”

“Yes, for now,” Amanda says. “I’ll clear the tray for you. Do you need anything else, Whizzer?”

He shakes his head against the pillow.

“Okay. Call for me if you start feeling sick again.” She nods at Marvin, then collects the tray and walks out.

Marvin hovers awkwardly, his hands on his hips. He should go home, it’ll be past 9 by the time he gets there at this rate, he hasn’t had his own dinner yet and he has work in the morning, but: “Wait, just—before you fall asleep.”

“”m not falling asleep,” Whizzer protests drowsily.

“I found your Instagram,” Marvin says quickly. It’s suddenly so important to say this, to confess it, like he’s done something intrusive, seen something he wasn’t supposed to.

But Whizzer just grins, blinking languidly. “Stalker.”

“Hey, you mentioned it,” Marvin protests. “I didn’t even know what it was.”

Whizzer hums, closing his eyes.

“There were pictures of me,” Marvin says hurriedly. “From… from before.”

“Mmhmm,” Whizzer agrees. “Posted a couple.”

“ _Why?_ ” It comes out sounding a little more fervent than he would have liked.

But Whizzer just shrugs, one-shouldered. “Liked ‘em,” he says. “They were good shots.”

“But—” He knows what he’s asking, what he can’t ask: why did you share those photos? What were you trying to say? Is Ramirez right, did it mean something to you, even though you insisted it didn’t? Does it still mean something, now?

“You don’t have a lot with people in them,” he says instead.

“People’re complicated,” Whizzer says, his voice syrupy slow. “Tough to get ‘em right.” He forces his eyes open with an effort. “Took tons of pictures of you,” he admits. “Those’re the only ones I got right.”

And Marvin remembers that, the little face he would make after he snapped a shot, the displeasure in his eyes and the twist of his lip. He’d taken it, at the time, as an insult. That Whizzer had thought him unphotogenic, unworthy of his camera.

How many more ways has he gotten this all wrong?

They can’t have this conversation now; Whizzer is drooping on the bed, his arms slumped at his sides, his eyes drifting shut. And, besides, he has more important things to worry about than the guilt complex Marvin is rapidly developing, long overdue though it may be. But… Marvin swallows, reaching down to lower the bed with the remote. Everything he ignored, when they were together, everything he never took the time to try to understand: it’s like he’s seen a glimpse, just a glimpse, of how Whizzer looks at the world, today. And all he wants is to see more.

He tucks the blanket in around him, smiling as Whizzer reaches for his hand. “Night, Whiz,” he whispers, squeezing it gently. “See you tomorrow.” Whizzer mumbles something back, his hand falling back to his side.

* * *

On the car ride home, Marvin notices the way the lights streak against the thick autumn night. He can’t help but wish that Whizzer could be there with him to see it.


	6. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoping you guys like this one! I've now rewritten it at least 4 times, and I refuse to look at it anymore. So here you go!
> 
> As always, I am not a doctor (nor an ad executive, nor any sort of expert on, well, anything really).

It takes him forever to find a worthy blanket. In the end, he has to endure the attentions of an overeager sales assistant who seems to think he cares about things like plaid versus checkered patterns and the exact shade of off-white his walls are at home. Both of which are probably things Whizzer cares very much about, but since he isn’t here, Marvin’s just going to stick with making sure it’s warm.

But not electric, as the saleswoman keeps trying to push on him. Ramirez might let him get away with a lot, but even he’s not going to go that far.

By the time he walks out with a simple green blanket (he figured skipping patterns altogether was probably safest, in the end), he’s wasted an hour and still needs to get over to the hospital. He texts Whizzer quickly, although he still hasn’t responded to the last message Marvin sent him. He’s hoping he’s just sleeping, not actually ignoring him.

He heads straight up to Whizzer’s room, fidgeting in the elevator as it slowly counts off the floors. By the time it opens its doors on the 7th, he’s getting so impatient that he practically walks right into Dr. Ramirez as he comes down the hall in the other direction.

“Marvin,” Ramirez says, steadying himself on Marvin’s shoulders. “I’m glad I bumped into you.” He smiles, a little, but it’s strained, tense. “Literally.”

That can’t mean anything good. “What’s going on?” he says, his heart starting to race. “Is Whizzer okay? What’s happened?”

“Whizzer is fine,” Ramirez says quickly. He sighs, then adds tiredly, “But not as fine as he thinks he is. Marvin, he wants to sign himself out.”

“ _What?_ ” Marvin stares at him, incredulous. “He’s doing what?”

“I’ve tried to explain to him that it’s not a good idea,” Ramirez says. “He won’t listen to me.” A nurse walks by, and he lowers his voice, pulling Marvin over to the wall by Whizzer’s door. “I’m hoping you can get him to see reason, since I can’t.”

“I’ll tie him to the damn bed if I have to,” Marvin says. “He’s really trying to sign out?”

“I can’t stop him,” Ramirez says. “If he really insists on it, there’s nothing I can do. He’s legally allowed to refuse care.”

“Legally, maybe,” Marvin growls. “But not if I have any say in it.”

“Just be careful with him, Marvin,” the doctor advises, as he pushes past him to storm into Whizzer’s room. “Remember, he’s still very sick. Getting him agitated won’t help him right now.”

That slows him down. He remembers Whizzer yesterday, gasping for air as he broke down on the bed. Ramirez is right: he can’t do that to him, no matter how aggravating his stubbornness might be.

“I’ll be careful,” he says. He looks down at the blanket, which he’s still holding on his arm. Underhanded tactics tend to work better with him, anyway, as this is proof.

The doctor gives him a look that reads very much as _good luck, you’re going to need it_. Marvin squares his shoulders, marching into the room.

Whizzer looks up at him, surprised, then flashes one of his megawatt smiles. “Oh, hi,” he says, his voice perfectly casual. “I was just texting you.” He exits the screen he was on quickly, setting the phone down on the side table.

Marvin would give a lot to know what exactly he was about to text. “Hi,” he says back. He looks him over, noting the little extra color in his face today, how he’s sitting up straighter in the bed. “You’re looking pretty good today, kid,” he says with real pleasure.

Whizzer’s whole face brightens. “I’m feeling a lot better,” he says, hopefully. “They might let me go soon.”

Oh, so that’s how he wants to play it. Marvin consciously relaxes his jaw where it’s started to tighten. “Not sure we’re there yet,” he says, as lightly as he can manage. Whizzer deflates a little, and he does feel somewhat bad, but then he remembers that Whizzer is actively lying to him and the feeling passes quickly. “Maybe in a few days.”

Actually, he’s pretty sure it should be more like another week, but he’s playing the game now, too.

Whizzer opens his mouth to say something, but then seems to change his mind. “Is that my blanket?” he says instead, nodding at it.

Marvin smiles, feeling it pull oddly at his face. “Yeah, that’s your blanket,” he says. He crosses over to the bed, shaking it out to drape over his legs. Whizzer makes a pleased noise, running his hands over its plush surface. “You like it?”

“Yes,” Whizzer says readily. “It’s so soft. And warm.” He beams at him. “Thank you, Marvin.”

Oh, that’s not fair. How is he supposed to stay mad at him when Whizzer looks up at him like that, with such pure delight in his eyes? God, he’d buy him a million blankets if he just got to see that face every time. “You’re welcome, kiddo,” he says, his voice strained.

Whizzer’s brow pinches. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Marvin says, shaking himself. “Just a long day at work.” He sits down in his chair, pulling it up to the bed.

Whizzer looks at him sympathetically. “You know, if you want to go home, get a drink or something, I won’t mind.”

Damn, he’s good. “Trying to get rid of me?” Marvin says lightly.

“Of course not,” Whizzer says, with an ingenuous smile. “I just don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck here.”

Marvin says, quietly, “Like you do?”

Something of the facade drops, at that. For a moment, he thinks he can see the real unhappiness in his eyes, the trapped, haunted look. But he covers it back up as quickly as it broke through. “What happened at work?” he says instead of answering.

“Nothing, really,” he sighs. “Just nearing the end of the quarter, and my boss is all over my case. I have to get this big project done by next week or I think she’s going to murder me.”

“That would be a shame,” Whizzer says, grinning. “Then who would buy me more blankets?”

“Hey, don’t push your luck,”  Marvin says, grinning reluctantly back. “You’ve got to earn them first.”

“Seriously, Marv,” Whizzer says affectionately. “Don’t burn yourself out. You don’t need to keep visiting me every day if you’re getting stressed about it.”

“Visiting you isn’t stressing me out,” Marvin says truthfully. Although the potential of Whizzer signing himself out of the hospital early and against his doctor’s wishes certainly is. He sighs again, shifting in the chair. It’s only 7:00, but he already feels exhausted.

“Why don’t you go home?” Whizzer says again, softly. “Watch some TV, just chill out for a bit?”

“I’m not just going to leave you here alone, in the hospital,” Marvin says, a little more pointedly than he probably should. He softens his voice with an effort. “I can stay until you fall asleep, at least.”

He can practically see Whizzer shifting gears in his head. “I am kind of tired,” he says. “I might just go to sleep now.”

Marvin pushes down his rising annoyance with an effort. “Okay.” There, let’s see how Whizzer reacts to him calling his bluff. “You can sleep if you need to.”

Now he’s starting to look frustrated, his mouth tightening. “You’re just going to sit there?”

Marvin bites down on a smile. “They should be bringing your dinner by soon, right?” he says. “I’ll stay until after that. Let’s see if you can earn yourself another blanket.” He smiles at him, innocently.

“It’s—you’ll get bored—” Whizzer tries.

And, okay, he’s had enough. “Stop,” Marvin says. “Stop that. Whizzer, I know you’re trying to sign yourself out.”

Whizzer gapes at him. “You knew this whole time?”

“I wanted to see if you were going to be honest with me. Which, clearly, you weren’t.”

“I—you weren’t being honest, either!”

Marvin shrugs. “You started it.”

“What are you, five?”

“What are you, a damn liar?”

Whizzer looks away.

“You were going to tell me they discharged you,” Marvin accuses him. “Weren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Whizzer admits.

“Is that what you were texting me? ‘Don’t bother coming, they’re letting me go’?”

Whizzer sighs, looking back up at him. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Well newsflash, Whizzer, I’m worried!” He stands from the chair, sits down hard on the edge of the bed. “You’re worrying me,” he says more softly. He takes his head in his hands, rubbing lightly at his sharp cheekbones with his thumbs. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“That’s because they have me on too much medication,” Whizzer shoots back. He shakes his head, against Marvin’s hands. “But I _am_ thinking clearly about this.”

“You’re not,” Marvin says. “Whizzer, you’re still really sick—”

“Not sick enough that I need to stay,” he says, pulling out of Marvin’s grasp. “I’m not an idiot, Marvin. I’m not saying I’m going to head back to the gym tomorrow. But if all I need is rest and medicine, why can’t I get that at home?”

“Because what if something goes wrong?” Marvin says angrily. “You live alone, Whiz, what if something happens?” Like it did, on Friday night. For the first time, it occurs to him to wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t been there, if no one had been there, when Whizzer had collapsed. Would anyone have helped him? Would anyone even have noticed?

Would he still be alive, now?

“The hospital isn’t daycare,” Whizzer is saying. “And you said yourself that I’m getting better.”

“Not leave-against-the-doctor’s-advice better!”

“The doctor doesn’t know shit,” Whizzer says sullenly.

“Actually, I’m pretty sure he—”

“I told you, all he does is give me pills! I’ll keep taking the damn pills, why do I have to be stuck in this bed to do it?”

“So they can keep an eye on you!”

“What for?” Whizzer says, exasperated. “All they do is wake me up every four hours to check that my heart is still beating! If I really need rest so much, I’ll be better off at home!” He starts coughing, and Marvin stands to pour him more water, clenching the cup tightly. He didn’t know they were waking him up like that. He’ll have to talk to Ramirez, get him to make them stop.

“Here,” he says, handing Whizzer the cup. He takes it, his hands trembling; Marvin helps him hold it steady. “Whizzer, look,” he begins, as he takes a cautious sip. “I know you hate it here, but it just isn’t smart to leave yet.”

Whizzer glares at him, shoving the cup back into his hands. “Right, because I’m just some idiot,” he says, his voice still hoarse, “who doesn’t know what’s best—”

“Kid—”

“I’m not a kid,” Whizzer snaps. “I’m sick, not a _child_. And I don’t need your goddamn permission—”

“But you need to get better,” Marvin says. “You need to let them help you.”

Whizzer sighs impatiently. “They’re not doing anything I can’t do for myself.”

Jesus christ, has he always been this stubborn? “You’re not going home alone,” Marvin says. “Forget it. It’s not happening.”

“It’s not your choice, Marvin!” Whizzer shouts at him. “It’s mine!” He’s getting really angry, now: on the monitor, his heart rate is spiking, his face flushing bright. And it’s straining his breathing, which is growing heavy and rasping, beginning to wheeze on the exhale.

“Alright, calm down,” Marvin says, starting to get alarmed. “Take it easy—”

“Fuck you,” Whizzer spits at him.

It’s a terrible time for the doctor to walk in, so of course that’s exactly what he does. He looks at Whizzer, then at Marvin, and his face furrows into a frown. “Is everything okay in here?”

Whizzer glares at him. “You told him,” he says accusingly.

“That you want to sign yourself out? Yes, I did. I also told him not to get you agitated,” he says, shooting a pointed glance at Marvin.

Whizzer looks like he wants to throw a punch, but instead, he starts to cough again.

Marvin sighs, reaching down to rub at his shoulders, but Whizzer twists away. “ _Don’t._ ”

Marvin sends a helpless look at Ramirez. Whizzer’s eyes darken further, his jaw clenching.

“Would you like me to give you two some more time?” Ramirez says.

“No.” Whizzer’s stopped coughing, and he’s ignoring the cup Marvin is holding out to him, his eyes fixed on the doctor’s face. “I want to go.”

“We should discuss—”

“There’s nothing to discuss! I’m allowed to sign myself out!”

“Assuming you understand the consequences of your decision,” Ramirez says. “Which I’m not convinced you do.”

Whizzer laughs, dark and angry. “I get it. You both think I’m a fucking moron. You still can’t stop me.”

“Whizzer, nobody thinks—”

“Yes you do,” Whizzer says tiredly. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t keep me against my will.”

“I know that you’re concerned about your insurance situation,” Ramirez tries. “But that’s no reason to put your health at risk—”

“Insurance situation?” Marvin cuts in. “What insurance situation?” He looks at Whizzer, then at Ramirez, who’s pretending very hard to look repentant.

Whizzer glares at the doctor so heatedly Marvin’s a little surprised he doesn’t actually burst into flames. “None of your business,” he says. “ _Either_ of you.”

“What’s going on with his insurance?” Marvin says to the doctor. He turns to Whizzer. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

“Never,” Whizzer says. “Because it’s none of your business.”

“Whizzer, whatever they did, I can help,” Marvin says. “I’m good at that sort of thing, you know that—”

“‘They’ didn’t do anything,” Whizzer cuts him off. He sighs, sending another glare at Ramirez. “I don’t have insurance.”

“What?”

“I _said_ I don’t have—”

“How do you not have insurance? You _have_ to have insurance—”

“Clearly, you don’t,” Whizzer snaps. “I can’t afford it. And I can’t afford a $50,000 hospital bill, either.”

“As I’ve explained to you,” Ramirez says, “the financial office will work with you. There are programs—”

“I know about the programs,” Whizzer cuts in. “But I’ve already been here longer than I can afford.”

“Then I’ll help you,” Marvin says, but Whizzer shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “You will not.”

“Whizzer, please—”

“And it’s not just the money,” he says. “There’s no _need_ for me to be here. Besides, I can’t keep missing work—”

“You’re not going back to work,” Marvin says, appalled. “Are you serious, Whizzer? You can’t actually be thinking that you’re going to—”

“Not _yet_ ,” Whizzer says. “But I have to give them a date, or I’m going to get fired.”

“They can’t do that, you’re sick—”

“I’m part-time, they can do whatever they want. I have to make rent, Marvin—”

“Then let me help you—”

“ _No_.”

“Whizzer, please,” Marvin says hopelessly. “You’re going to kill yourself like this.”

“I’m not _dying_ ,” Whizzer starts, but the doctor cuts him off.

“If you put too much stress on your body right now, Whizzer, you could overtax yourself very easily,” he says. “I’m sorry, but going back to work at this point is absolutely out of the question. You would need several weeks off at the very least.”

“ _Several weeks?_ ” Whizzer says, horrified. “You have to be joking.”

“I’m sorry,” Ramirez says again, “but no, I’m not. Your body needs rest, Whizzer—”

“And I need a paycheck! I’m barely making it as it is!” He starts to cough, violently, his body shaking with the force of it.

“Whizzer, please, I can help,” Marvin says. “Please, let me help you.”

He can’t stop coughing long enough to answer, but he shakes his head again, hard.

“I can put you in touch with a social worker,” Ramirez offers cautiously. “They can help walk you through some of the assistance programs available.”

“I don’t want—any programs,” Whizzer gasps. “I just want—to go home.”

He’s not going to listen, Marvin thinks despairingly. He’s not going to change his mind, no matter what either of them says. Whizzer’s looking up at him, his jaw set, but he can see the anger starting to crack, can just barely see the fear and the misery he’s hiding behind it. He hates it here, Marvin knows he hates it here, and if he’s not getting enough sleep, and the food is so terrible he can’t even eat it, and there’s the constant threat that that other bed is going to be filled soon and whatever illness that person has, Whizzer could catch it too…

Marvin swallows, making up his mind. It’s stupid, he knows it’s stupid, but if he can at least control the damage: “He can stay with me,” he says to Ramirez.

Whizzer’s glare falters. “What?”

“What?” the doctor echoes.

“He’s going to leave anyway,” Marvin explains to Ramirez, still looking at Whizzer, who’s watching him warily. “At least this way he won’t be alone.”

“Wait,” Whizzer says, “Marvin—”

Ramirez sighs. “I still don’t advise this,” he says. “But you do have the advantage here of a very capable doctor as a next-door neighbor.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Whizzer says.

“Shut up,” Marvin snaps at him. “You’re getting what you wanted.” He turns to the doctor. “What do I need to do?”

“ _Wait!_ ” Marvin turns back to him, exasperated. Whizzer’s staring at him, his eyes huge in his narrow face. “Marvin—you can’t—I didn’t ask you to—”

“No, you didn’t,” Marvin agrees tiredly. “And you wouldn’t. You can’t even walk out of here by yourself, but you wouldn’t—” He swallows, shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter, Whizzer. You need someone to stay with you, it may as well be me.” Even to himself, he sounds defeated.

Whizzer looks confused, hesitant, verging on frightened, but Marvin turns away from him, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets. Ramirez is watching him with sympathy, which Marvin would bristle at if he didn’t feel so exhausted. “What do I have to do?” he says again.

“I’ll send his prescriptions down to the pharmacy,” the doctor says. “You can pick them up there. He’ll need oxygen at home, too, but that may take days to get set up. Until that time, he’ll need to be extra careful with his lungs. Keep him on bed rest, and keep a close eye on him. You’ll need to be monitoring his oxygen saturation levels very closely; get a pulse oximeter from the pharmacy, make sure you know how to use it. If his levels fall below 90%, I want you to call me. Let me give you my phone number.”

“Marvin,” Whizzer says hoarsely, as he walks over to hand Ramirez his phone.

“Whizzer, for once in your life, keep your damn mouth shut,” Marvin snaps.

“If he loses consciousness, or if his lips or fingers start turning blue, call 911 immediately,” Ramirez continues, handing him back his phone. “And make sure he’s eating. The IV he’s on is giving him fluids and nutrients; without that, it’s even more important that he’s drinking enough water and eating regularly. Small, frequent meals tend to work best. I’m going to write him out a prescription for an anti-nausea medication—see if you can get him to take it.”

There’s a pause, and he realizes that they’re both waiting for Whizzer to say something, to protest the pills or complain about them talking about him like he isn’t even there. But he just watches them, his expression too complicated for Marvin to decipher.

“And watch his temperature, too,” Ramirez adds. “If it rises above 102, bring him right back here.”

Marvin nods, his throat tight. How big of a mistake is he making, here? He’s not a nurse; he’s never taken care of anyone sick before, not even Jason. That was always Trina’s job, not his. What if he’s awful at it? What if Whizzer gets worse because of him?

“Whizzer,” Ramirez says, turning to him at last, and Marvin realizes to his surprise that the doctor is actually angry, though he’s trying his best to hide it. “Remember what we discussed. Adherence is absolutely crucial in treating HIV. You have to take those pills, every day, without fail. No matter what.”

Whizzer nods, and Marvin thinks there may actually be something like remorse in his eyes.

“Take the Bactrim, too,” the doctor continues. “All of it, even when you start feeling better. And whatever your outpatient doctor prescribes you—and you _will_ see an outpatient doctor, regularly—you take it. I don’t want to see you back here.”

Whizzer nods again.

Ramirez sighs, his face softening. “Whatever else you may think of me,” he says, “I want you to get better. For your sake.”

“I know,” Whizzer says, hoarsely. “Thank you.”

Ramirez smiles at him, sincere and kind. “I’ll get the paperwork together for you,” he says. “Marvin—don’t be afraid to call me, even if it’s something minor. And take care of yourself, too.”

“I will,” Marvin says. “Thanks.”

“Gentlemen,” Ramirez says, and walks out.

Marvin watches him go, nerves starting to swell in his stomach. He’ll have to call his boss, tell her he needs at least a week off—she’s probably going to kill him on the spot. And he’ll have to call Trina, too, and explain why Jason can’t come this weekend. After their conversation this past Sunday, she might well finish where Kathleen leaves off.

“Marvin,” Whizzer says cautiously behind him.

And then there’s Whizzer himself.

“Why don’t you take a nap,” Marvin says, not looking at him. “I’ll wake you up when they bring the paperwork in.”

“Marvin—”

“I know you’re worn out,” he says. “It’s been a long night.”

Whizzer says, quietly, “I’m sorry.”

Finally, he turns, putting a hand on his hip as he looks him over. Whizzer is sitting stiffly on the bed, his expression nervous, contrite. He does look exhausted, but he also looks like he has something to say, and Marvin knows him: he won’t get any rest until he says his piece.

So he sighs, crossing back over to sit in his chair. “Alright,” he says. “Fine. I’m listening.”

Whizzer says, rapidly, “You don’t have to do this.”

Marvin puts his head in his hands, rubbing wearily at his face. “Whizzer—”

“Marvin, I know you’re stressed out. You have work, you have Jason, you have a whole life—you don’t need to deal with me, too.”

Marvin looks up at him, over his hands. “Are you done?”

Whizzer looks, if possible, even more nervous, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says, swallowing. “Look, I—I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate it—”

Marvin huffs a tired laugh. “Jesus.”

“Marvin—”

“I have to call my boss,” he says, standing. “Don’t try to sneak out while I’m gone.” He walks away, ignoring Whizzer’s call for him to wait behind him.

He doesn’t get cell reception in the hallway, and anyway he could use some space, so he heads down to the waiting room, which is full of frightened, tired people he feels a heavy wave of sympathy for. He looks down at his phone: it’s already nearing 8, and who knows how long it’s going to take before they actually get to leave? His stomach grumbles, reminding him sourly that it’s been too many hours since he last ate anything. And what about Whizzer? Are they still going to bring him his food, now that he’s checking out? How is he going to get anything to eat?

He can’t deal with that right now. He can’t deal with any of it. He pulls up Kathleen’s number on his phone, takes a deep breath, and presses the call button.

She answers on the fourth ring, just as he’s starting to hope it may go to voicemail. “Hello?” she says impatiently. In the background, he can hear a child screaming, a man’s reprimanding voice.

So he’s caught her at a great time, then. Wonderful.

“Kathleen, this is Marvin,” he says through rising dread. “Do you have a minute?”

“Marvin? Is this about Applebaum? Hold on,” she says before he can answer. “Go to your room!” she snaps, and for a wild second he thinks she’s talking to him before it clicks that she’s yelling at her kid. “Sorry about that. Yes, what’s the problem?”

Here goes. “Kathleen,” he says, carefully, “listen, I—I’m going to need some time off.”

There’s a short pause, and then Kathleen says, in a tone that brooks no argument, “Absolutely not.”

“Kathleen—”

“You have got to be kidding me!” she shouts at him. “Now, Marvin? Right before the end of the year, before the Board of Trustees—there is no fucking way!”

“I know, I’m sorry—”

“What the hell are you thinking! You’re running one of our biggest campaigns, Marvin! Or do you think Applebaum is going to just—”

“My friend is being discharged,” he cuts in quickly. “The one in the hospital, he’s going home, and he needs someone to take care of him—”

“Then get someone else to do it!”

“There is no one else,” Marvin says. That’s the crux of the matter, after all. The entire time he’s been here, no one else has visited Whizzer; as far as he knows, no one else has even contacted him. “He’s only got me.”

“ _I’ve_ only got you,” Kathleen says. “What do you think, I’ll give Applebaum to _Ryan?_   The man can’t even handle a fucking A/B test!”

Since Ryan is his closest contender for a possible promotion, that’s pretty heartening. Or would be, under different circumstances. “Then I’ll work from home,” he says. “I’ll get the campaign done, I swear. I’ll call you every day if I have to. But he needs me, Kathleen.” Even if he won’t admit it. “I can’t abandon him.”

There’s a short, furious silence, and then she says, her teeth audibly grinding, “How long?”

“Rest of this week,” he says, cautiously. “And… probably next week, too.” And then they’ll see, after that.

Kathleen curses, loud enough and long enough that he sincerely hopes her child isn’t still in the room. “Fine,” she bites out. “Fine. But if I don’t see something worthwhile, from you, before the Board meeting, I swear to god I’ll fire you.”

“Noted,” Marvin says.

“I’m not happy, Marvin,” she tells him. He holds back a sarcastic comment with a great effort. “This had better _never_ happen again.”

“It won’t,” he promises.

“Tell him I hope he feels better soon,” she says sourly, and hangs up on him.

So… that went well.

What Marvin would really like, just now, in this order, is: a stiff drink, a plate of hot pasta, and his bed. Instead, he’s stuck here, with an ex-boyfriend who doesn’t want him but whom he’s somehow become responsible for. And, he finally notices, an uncomfortable amount of people watching him, in the waiting room. Well, he hopes he provided them some entertainment, then. God knows all of them could use it.

He heads back to the elevators, catching sight of himself in the steel doors as they slide open. His hair’s a mess, he’s got bags under his eyes: at this rate, he’s going to look worse than Whizzer, soon. No wonder the doctor told him to take care of himself; he probably doesn’t want another patient.

Whizzer’s asleep, when he gets back to his room. The bed’s still upright, the blanket Marvin bought him pooled around his legs. He sighs, reaching down for the remote. Asleep, Whizzer looks vulnerable, almost defenseless. It’s the best optical illusion he’s ever seen.

* * *

It’s an hour later that a nurse comes in with the paperwork, and from there things move quickly: signing forms, picking up Whizzer’s meds (no wonder he didn’t want more pills, Marvin thinks, wincing as he pays the exorbitant bill: he’s practically carrying out half of the pharmacy), getting lectured again on taking the meds and eating enough, disconnecting him from all of the monitors and equipment. Finally, after Whizzer changes back into the pajamas he wore in, a different nurse comes in with a wheelchair, helping Whizzer carefully to sit in it.

“It’s a good thing I got you the blanket,” Marvin says, draping it over him. “You’d freeze to death in just that.”

It’s the first time he’s spoken to him since waking him up, and Whizzer looks up at him, smiling tentatively. “Thanks,” he says, cautious but sincere.

“You’re welcome,” Marvin says gruffly. On reflection, he takes off his jacket, too, holding it out to him. “I know you think it’s hideous, but wear it anyway.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

“I don’t have pneumonia,” he snaps. “Wear the damn jacket.”

Whizzer takes it, pulling it across his thinned-out shoulders.

Marvin looks up at the nurse, who’s watching him with clear misgiving. “Can’t you get him something for his feet?” Whizzer’s barefoot, nobody having thought to grab him shoes as he was being wheeled into the ambulance.

“Sure,” the nurse says. “I’ll go get him some socks.”

There’s an awkward silence, as he leaves. Marvin is trying not to look at Whizzer, but he can’t help it: wearing his jacket over white faux-silk pajamas, a dark green blanket over his lap and nothing on his feet, he looks, frankly, ridiculous. He can feel a reluctant smile starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.

Whizzer makes a face. “I look really stupid, don’t I.”

“Yeah,” Marvin says, starting to chuckle. “It’s, uh, not your best look.”

“Says the man who thinks _this_ is high fashion,” Whizzer grumbles, pulling at the blazer’s lapel with distaste.

“I still don’t understand why you hate it so much.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “If you don’t get it by now, you’re never going to.” There’s something off in his voice, though, a note ringing oddly. Like he’s following a script, almost; like he’s trying to remember the right words. “At least your ties have gotten a little better. Which isn’t saying much.”

He’s trying to please him, Marvin realizes. He’s trying to be what he thinks Marvin wants, to play the part that he thinks is expected of him. He turns away, the anger rushing back in a wave. Why does he always have to play these stupid games? Why can’t anything ever just be simple, with him?

The nurse comes back in, carrying a pair of yellow socks that really complete the whole ensemble. Whizzer looks at him with a nervous hope in his eyes, like he’s waiting for him to make a joke about it, crack the tension that’s settling back in around them. But Marvin just watches as the nurse helps him slide them on his feet.

Neither of them talk as they head to the car. The nurse is gentle and careful with Whizzer, warning him of bumps, checking often to make sure he’s not going too fast. Marvin half expects Whizzer to snap at him, to complain that he isn’t made of glass. But he just nods when asked if he’s okay, shakes his head when asked if he needs anything.

As soon as they get into the garage, Whizzer starts to shiver. Marvin clenches his jaw, wishing desperately he had another jacket or blanket to give to him. “My car’s pretty close,” he says quietly. “Hang in there.”

Whizzer looks up at him, opening his mouth to say something, but then he starts to cough, rough and wrenching. In the garage, it echoes like a shot. The nurse stops, and Marvin reaches down to steady Whizzer as he bends over, looking up at the nurse apprehensively. “I’ll go start my car,” he says. “Get the heat going. It’s right over there.” He points, then, thinking better of it, gets out his keys and unlocks the doors, making the lights flash.

The nurse nods, and Marvin hurries over, slamming the door shut behind him with what is probably a little more force than necessary. If he weren’t such a damn idiot, he’d turn them right back around, get Whizzer back in that bed with its oxygen and monitors and a doctor who knows what the hell he’s doing. But he is a damn idiot, so instead he turns the heat on full blast and hurries back over to Whizzer, who is still shivering but at least no longer coughing as the nurse pushes him slowly over to the car.

He opens the passenger door, reaching hastily for Whizzer, who has started to leverage himself up with the arm of the wheelchair. But the nurse gets there first, supporting him as he climbs in, tucking the blanket in around him once he’s settled. Marvin watches with an uncomfortable feeling crawling in his gut. One that is definitely _not_ jealousy, thank you very much.

It’s just… the way Whizzer looks at the nurse, with such uncomplicated gratitude… well, it’s stupid.

The nurse leaves, and then it’s just them, Whizzer leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, breathing harshly. Marvin shuts the door, quietly, although he knows Whizzer isn’t asleep. It just suddenly feels like too loud a sound, too forceful a motion, and they both might break.

He shakes himself, heading back over to his side of the car. Whizzer’s eyes open as he climbs in, watching him as he reverses carefully out of the parking spot, points them toward the exit. “Go to sleep,” Marvin tells him, as he pulls out into the road. “It’ll be a little while until we get there.”

“I’m okay,” Whizzer says. “Just enjoying the heat.”

Marvin makes a mental note to turn up the thermostat when they get home.

“You look so tired,” Whizzer adds, softly.

Marvin chuckles mirthlessly. “It’s been a long night.”

Whizzer’s face twists with remorse. “I’m—”

“Don’t,” Marvin cuts him off. “Don’t apologize when you don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

Whizzer bursts out, “Then explain it to me!” He sounds frustrated, plaintive, and it’s weird, but something in Marvin’s chest uncoils at the sound. That’s the real Whizzer, he realizes. Not the poor imitation he’s been playing all night. That’s the Whizzer he held yesterday in his arms, the Whizzer who kicked away the suitcase when he put it down in front of him, the Whizzer who yelled at him and laughed with him and called him names and _meant it_. That’s _his_ Whizzer, and Marvin’s been missing him, fiercely, this whole goddamn night.

So he takes a deep breath, and he lets it out, and he tells him the truth.

“You’re an idiot,” he says. “You’re a stupid, stubborn ass, and I don’t know how anyone puts up with you.”

Whizzer blinks at him. “They don’t, mostly.”

“Whizzer, for god’s sake, you’re important to me,” he says, and if his voice is trembling a little, well, maybe it’s his turn to be the real him, too. “I hate seeing you hurting like this. I would give anything to make it better for you, but you won’t _let me_.”

Whizzer says, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Marvin glances at him, surprised. “What?”

“Marvin, you do this… thing,” Whizzer says eloquently. “You always have.”

“Care to elaborate?” Marvin says dryly.

Whizzer huffs, frustrated. “You just—you always try to fix everything, Marv. You always want to make it right, and when you can’t, you hate yourself for it.” He pauses to cough, and Marvin forces himself to keep his eyes on the road, on the stop-and-go traffic ahead of them. “You can’t fix this,” Whizzer says, settling back against the seat with a hand on his chest. “You can’t make this better.”

Marvin says, “I can at least _try_.”

“Why?” Whizzer says, exasperated. “It’s—Marvin, you don’t owe me anything—”

“It’s not about _owing_ ,” Marvin says. “Jesus, not everything is a fucking _transaction_. Why is it so hard for you to understand that I care about you?”

“A week ago,” Whizzer says, “you barely even knew I existed.”

That hurts. And it isn’t true, but even now, maybe especially now, he’s not brave enough to say it. “Whizzer, you didn’t see yourself, when you collapsed like that,” he says instead. “You don’t know how—you have no idea—” He stops, frustrated.

“So you care because I’m sick?”

“I care because you’re _you_.” Because seeing him hurting makes him sick to his stomach. Because hearing him laugh makes his foolish heart sing. Because he loves him, this obstinate, aggravating prick, he loves him so much it’s killing him.

“I don’t get it,” Whizzer says. “Marvin, I swear, I’m not just being an ass, I’m really trying, here. But I don’t understand.”

And that hurts, too. But: “Alright,” he says. “You don’t have to.” He looks over at him, as he eases the car to a stop at a red light. “Just let me help you. Please.”

“Okay,” Whizzer says softly. And then he adds, after a moment, “Thank you.”

Marvin smiles at him, the first genuine smile he’s given all night. Whizzer relaxes a little at the sight of it, some of the tension leaking from his shoulders. “You’re welcome,” Marvin says. Then he reaches over and ruffles his hair.

“Hey!” Whizzer yelps, batting his hands away.

Marvin laughs, and Whizzer attempts to glare at him, but he can’t quite hide the relief in his eyes. And the warmth, real warmth, that has Marvin grinning like a schoolkid as he turns back to the road.

It’s quiet for a while, and Marvin looks over at the next light to realize that Whizzer is nodding off, the heat and the motion lulling him to sleep. He smiles, tucking the blanket in a little tighter around him, where it’s come loose with all his shifting. Whizzer stirs a little, blinking at him, but he drifts back off before he can even open his mouth to apologize.

The light turns, and Marvin drives them home.

* * *

Whizzer’s shaky on his feet when they get back to his building, leaning heavily on Marvin as they take the elevator up to his floor. By the time they actually get into the apartment he’s panting so hard that Marvin makes him take a seat at the kitchen table to catch his breath before they walk over to the bedroom. Which is only a few feet away, but suddenly feels like a full marathon.

He wasn’t this bad, on Friday night. He was leaning on him then, yes, as they headed into Charlotte’s living room, but he could walk on his own, more or less. The sharp wheezing, the desperate coughs, they’re as bad as when he first collapsed, and Marvin knows he’s starting to panic, but he can’t help it, can’t make it stop. Has the hospital actually made him worse? Is the medication really helping him, or is it just exacerbating the problem?

“Marv,” Whizzer gasps. “Take a—deep breath.”

Marvin laughs, just a touch unsteadily. “You’re such a brat.”

Whizzer’s too out of breath to talk, but he winks at him.

Finally the fit passes, enough so that Marvin can pull him back up to his feet, steering him towards the bedroom. But Whizzer stops halfway there, nearly causing Marvin to trip. “Bathroom first?”

Oh, right. He’ll need help with that, too. “Of course,” he says hurriedly. “Should I—do you need—”

Whizzer sends him a dirty look. “I can piss—by myself, thanks,” he says testily.

Marvin holds his hands up as Whizzer grabs onto the door frame to steady himself. “Sorry, sorry.”

He emerges after a long minute in which Marvin does his very best not to start knocking on the door and demanding to know if he’s okay. So it’s fortunate that Whizzer is finished so quickly, really, because his very best is not actually all that good.

“I need—a haircut,” Whizzer pants, shaking it irritably out of his eyes. Then he stops, taking in Marvin’s expression. “Are you—okay?”

“Fine,” Marvin says. “Come on.” He holds out his arms to him, and it’s a strange, sad sort of contentment that fills him when Whizzer walks willingly into them.

He would very much like to just hold him, for a moment. To clasp him tight, here in the hallway, and simply stand together, his arms around Whizzer’s back, Whizzer’s snug around his waist. They’ve never had a moment like that, a ceasefire that lasted long enough to become a true peace. It was all motion and fire, and he loved it, he did, but right now all he wants is just a measure of that calm that they never found together.

But Whizzer is trembling in his hold, breathing roughly, and Marvin still has to get him into bed and go get his medicine from the car (not to mention his blanket, which Whizzer made him promise twice that he would bring up for him before he would leave it behind). So he turns them to the bedroom, walking him carefully down the hall, trying not to step too fast or hold too tight, trying not to think too much.

By the time Whizzer’s settled in the bed, all of the pillows Marvin could find stacked up behind him, he’s thoroughly wiped, barely awake enough to pull the covers up himself. Still, he reaches for Marvin’s hand as he turns to leave. “Marv,” he mumbles, his eyes just slits of warm brown light. “Don’… don’ drive yourself crazy.”

Marvin smiles. “A little late for that,” he jokes lightly.

Whizzer rocks his head, once, against the pillows. “I like you,” he breathes, and he’s falling asleep as he talks, his hand going limp in Marvin’s hold, his eyes sealing closed. “Don’… don’ wanna…”

“You don’t want to what?” Marvin urges, but he’s already gone.

He sighs, setting Whizzer’s hand down carefully by his side. “I like you, too,” he whispers to him, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “And I’ll try.”

He supposes it’s the best that either of them can do.


	7. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... so long. I promise it ends eventually.
> 
> Trigger warning for nausea and vomiting (brief) and anxiety (not as brief). And, as always, I am not a doctor.

He can’t sleep.

It’s 3 in the morning and he’s tossing and turning on Jason’s narrow bed, which is far less comfortable than he ever would have thought, given how much time his son seems to spend in the damn thing. Marvin’s already decided he’s going to get him a mattress topper for Chanukah, though he may just go ahead and buy it early for himself. Then maybe he could get some damn sleep.

He flops wearily onto his side, staring up at the baseball poster on the wall. Some Mets player stares back at him, though he couldn’t for the life of him say which one. “What are you looking at,” Marvin grumbles at him. The poster doesn’t answer.

Whizzer’s already woken up coughing twice. Both times, he’s been confused and disoriented, unsure where he is or why; soothing him back to sleep has taken a good ten minutes each time. And it’s probably going to happen again any minute, and really Marvin should check on him anyway, because what if he needs something, or his temperature’s risen, or he’s stopped breathing altogether, and how would he even know until morning—

“Right,” he says to the anonymous baseball player. “This is stupid.”

He’ll just go check on him, that’s all. Make sure he’s okay. Then he’ll be able to sleep, after that.

Right? Right.

He gets up, throwing the comforter aside with a grimace. That’s another thing he should get for Jason, a comforter that’s actually comfortable. Maybe he’ll just get him an entirely new bed and have done with it.

He heads over to the bedroom, only tripping once as he makes his way carefully in the fuzzy gray light that seeps in through the blinds. Whizzer’s fast asleep, breathing harsh and rasping but, at least, even. The pulse oximeter has fallen off, or possibly Whizzer’s taken it off; he clips it back onto his finger, careful not to wake him as he waits for it to read out his oxygen levels.

After a moment the numbers settle: he’s at 92%, low but not dangerously so. Marvin breathes a sigh of relief, rubbing wearily at the back of his neck. Okay. He can go now, then.

As long as those numbers don’t start to fall.

He must zone out, for a minute, just staring at the oximeter, his brain heavy and fogged with exhaustion. He might even be falling asleep on his feet, actually, because the next thing he knows, Whizzer is scrambling up in the bed with a startled cry.

“Fucking christ,” he says, and then he’s coughing, as Marvin hastily takes a step back, his hands raised repentantly in front of him. “What the fuck—”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Marvin yelps. “I was just checking on you, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you—”

Whizzer looks up at him, his eyes narrowing. He’s got a hand on his chest, the one that should be wearing the oximeter, but it’s come off again in his jostling to get away. “Jesus fuck, Marvin,” he pants. “Just get in the—damn bed already.”

Marvin’s so tired it takes him a moment to process this. “What?”

“The bed,” Whizzer says, impatiently. “Get in it.”

“But—”

Whizzer grabs his wrist, pulling him over to the bed with more strength than Marvin had actually thought he was capable of at this point. “Go to sleep,” he says. “Before you fall over.” He smiles sardonically. “At least _one_ of us should be able to—stay on his damn feet.”

There’s a reason that he shouldn’t do this, Marvin knows. There’s a reason that he took Jason’s bed in the first place, in spite of all his weak heart’s yearnings. But he’s too damn tired to remember what it was, and anyway, Whizzer is right: he needs to get some sleep if he’s going to have any hope of looking after him. And he won’t be able to sleep anywhere else, tonight, as these past torturous hours have proved.

So he climbs into the bed, over Whizzer’s legs, who grunts and accidentally kicks him as he tries to move them aside. Just like old times, really.

All the pillows are stacked behind Whizzer’s back, so Marvin lays his head down on the mattress with a sense of sweet relief. He’s on top of the sheets, and all of the blankets are also piled on top of Whizzer, and he should really lift up his head now and make sure that Whizzer is okay… he was coughing before, he might need some water… and the oximeter came off, he should fix that… he should really get up…

* * *

Marvin wakes to light streaming in past the blinds and Whizzer’s arm wrapped tight around his stomach. He’s somehow ended up with a pillow beneath his head, a thick blanket thrown over top of him, and his back pressed to Whizzer’s chest, which is rising and falling in a slow, comforting pattern that almost belies how labored his breathing actually is.

He frowns, twisting out of Whizzer’s grasp as carefully as he can. Whizzer doesn’t wake, his arm flopping back down onto the bed. Sometime in the night, he’s fallen off the stack of pillows, landing flat on his side beside them. Marvin sits up, cursing himself. He should have woken up, should have been checking on him, this is exactly the sort of thing he’s supposed to be making sure doesn’t happen—

Whizzer starts to cough, moaning as it forces him awake. Marvin pulls him carefully up, rubbing at his back as he sags heavily into his arms. “Hey, take it easy,” he murmurs to him. “You’re okay, I’ve got you… just take it easy…”

“Marvin?” Whizzer pants.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Marvin says. “You okay? You know where you are?”

“Your place,” Whizzer says, breathlessly. So that’s an improvement over last night, at least.

Whizzer’s falling asleep again, his head burrowed into Marvin’s neck. “Hey, wake up,” Marvin whispers to him, patting him lightly on the back. “Wake up for a second, you need to take your medicine.”

Whizzer groans; Marvin can feel it thrumming in his own throat. “Come on,” he says, groping with his free hand for the pillow Whizzer gave to him during the night. He tosses it up with the others, then maneuvers them so that he can push him gently back against the pile. “Let me get you your meds, then you can go back to sleep.”

“No,” Whizzer whines, forcing his eyes half-open.

Marvin ignores him, clambering off the bed. Whizzer’s medications are still in the kitchen where he left them last night; he grabs them with a grimace at the clock, which is ticking away past 9:30 with a sense of cheerful abandon. He shakes his head, thoroughly frustrated with himself. Bad enough that he’s supposed to have started work at 9, but Whizzer’s meds were due to be given to him at 8, and now his whole schedule is going to be off.

“Alright,” he says, back in the bedroom, with Whizzer watching him sluggishly. “The Bactrim’s one of the morning ones, right?”

Whizzer shrugs.

“And the prednisone,” he says, tipping both of them out against his palm. “But the others are later?”

“Lunchtime,” Whizzer mumbles.

Which reminds him that he needs to make him something for breakfast. Jesus, how is he so terrible at this?

Right. Meds first, then food.

“Okay,” he says, pressing the pills into Whizzer’s hand. “Take those.” He does, swallowing carefully with the water Marvin passes to him. “You need the bathroom?” he asks, taking the cup back.

“Yeah,” Whizzer says reluctantly.

“Alright, let’s get you up—”

“I can stand by myself,” Whizzer protests, trying to kick the blankets aside. Considering Marvin had layered every single one of them he could find on top of him last night, he’s not surprised that Whizzer is having some trouble getting them off. That may have been a bit excessive, he admits to himself. Especially because it looks like Whizzer’s been sweating, his skin clammy and hair lank on his forehead.

“Here,” Marvin says, moving them aside. He puts an arm around Whizzer’s back, supporting him as he stands with only a slight wobble. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Whizzer says impatiently. So he’s in a great mood, then.

They walk slowly to the bathroom, Whizzer leaning on him heavily. Halfway there, he has to stop and cough again, Marvin taking all of his weight as he trembles with the exertion. At the door, he grabs onto the frame with unsteady hands, but he sends Marvin the same dirty look as last night when he offers to help him in. It’s even harder not to pound on the door the second time around.

Once he’s done and Marvin gets him back into the bed (only covered with about half the blankets, this time), Whizzer rests his head back against the pillows, clearly intending to go back to sleep. But Marvin shakes his head regretfully. “Sorry, kiddo, but you’ve got to eat something first.”

Whizzer groans again. “Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” Marvin says, smiling. “Then you can sleep, promise.”

“Kay.” He closes his eyes anyway.

Marvin pokes his shoulder, grinning when Whizzer glares at him. “What do you want to eat?”

“Nothing,” Whizzer whines. “Let me sleep.”

“Whiz, you have to eat,” Marvin says anxiously. “You heard the doctor, without the IV—”

“Ugh, fine,” Whizzer grunts. “Toast?”

He can do toast. “You want butter on it? Jelly?” He can’t remember what Whizzer used to put on toast, if he ever saw him have it. Did Whizzer even used to eat breakfast? How does he not know this?

“Just plain,” Whizzer says. “Stomach hurts.”

Marvin frowns, reaching out to feel his forehead on instinct. Which reminds him that he’s supposed to be monitoring that, too. Whizzer does feel warm, and he doesn’t even try to push Marvin’s hand away, so he must be feeling really lousy. Shit, he needs to go get the thermometer, doesn’t he? But Whizzer still needs to eat, and he needs to put the oximeter back on, too, and of course that’s when his phone starts to ring, from where he’s left it in Jason’s room.

For a moment, it’s just too much. He’s no good at this, he’s getting everything wrong, he can’t even manage to get him his medications on time or keep the damn oximeter on his finger, and what if something really goes wrong, what if something actually happens? Whizzer needs help, real help, from someone who’s qualified to give it to him. Marvin is a poor excuse for a caregiver.

“Marv?” Whizzer says, putting a hand on his arm.

Marvin shakes himself, takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Sorry,” he says. “Listen, if your stomach hurts, the anti-nausea meds—”

“No more pills,” Whizzer says stubbornly.

He doesn’t have it in him to fight this battle right now. “I need to take your temperature,” he says instead. “Then I’ll get you your toast.”

“Then I can sleep?”

“Then you can sleep.” He pats his legs as he turns to get the thermometer from the bathroom.

“Marvin,” Whizzer says.

“Yeah?”

“You should eat something, too.” Whizzer’s looking at him intently, his eyes serious in his drawn, gray face. “And maybe take a nap, later.”

Marvin smiles at him fondly. “Don’t worry about me. You just focus on you.”

Whizzer huffs, but he lets it be as Marvin goes to get the thermometer.

It takes him a little while to find it, and when he comes back, Whizzer’s eyes are already closed. Marvin nudges him; he squints up at him with an effort, opening his mouth obediently when Marvin tells him to. He doesn’t even make a dirty comment, which is how he knows he must really be out of it.

The thermometer reads at 100.8, far enough away from the 102 threshold that Marvin breathes a sigh of relief. Still, no wonder Whizzer is so exhausted, and he’s started to cough again, too, bad enough that he actually whimpers a little when the fit finally passes, leaving him limp against the pillows.

“Drink some water,” Marvin says quietly, passing the cup to him. Whizzer sips at it slowly, his eyes dull and distant. “More,” Marvin urges, and he takes another sip, the cup starting to list dangerously in his hands as he lowers it again, his grip loosening with fatigue.

He takes the cup before Whizzer can spill it, setting it back down on the bedside table. Whizzer’s fading fast, his arm slumping back to his side, his eyes fluttering rapidly. He suspects that the only reason he’s not fully crashed yet is because he’s trying to stay up for Marvin’s sake.

And he still hasn’t gotten him his toast.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, brushing a hand through Whizzer’s hair. Whizzer sighs drowsily, his head tilting into Marvin’s palm. He’s so tired, he thinks, swallowing, as Whizzer’s head grows heavier in his hand, his eyes fully closing. Is he going to have the heart to wake him up again? Isn’t that what he was saying, yesterday, that no one was letting him sleep?

But he also needs to eat. And drink more water; the cup’s still almost full, on the end table beside him.

From Jason’s bedroom, he can hear his phone starting to ring again. Kathleen is definitely going to kill him.

He untangles his hand from Whizzer’s hair, pushing him gently back against the pillows, then heads to the kitchen, ignoring his phone as it goes to voicemail. He only has one slice of bread left; he drops it in the toaster, crumpling up the bag to throw in the trash. He’ll have to buy more, although how the hell is he going to do that, since he can’t leave Whizzer alone?

And one slice of toast is nowhere near enough food. Maybe he should make him some eggs? Are eggs good for an upset stomach?

He hesitates, looking at the clock, but then, it’s hardly going to matter if Whizzer eats at 10 or 10:15 at this point. Besides, he’d probably appreciate the extra time to sleep.

By the time he heads back into the bedroom with a full plate of scrambled eggs and toast, his own stomach is grumbling loudly and he’s starting to get a caffeine headache. Thankfully, his phone has stopped ringing for the moment; less thankfully, he’s pretty sure that he has a few angry voicemails to sit through when he does actually get to it, which is hardly going to help with his head.

Whizzer’s exactly as he left him, fast asleep with his head tipped back against the pillows behind him. He looks so peaceful, so comfortable, that Marvin has to actually fight to get himself to disturb him. He needs to eat, he reminds himself sternly. He can go back to sleep after that.

“Whiz,” he murmurs, putting the plate down on the end table so he can shake him gently awake. “Hey, wake up.”

Whizzer’s face scrunches in displeasure. “Leave me ‘lone,” he whines. “‘m sleeping.”

“I know, kiddo, but you’ve got to eat breakfast, remember?”

Whizzer opens his eyes reluctantly. “Time is it?”

“10:30,” Marvin says, shamefaced. “You’re supposed to already be on your second meal by now.”

Whizzer’s face goes through a complicated series of expressions. He pushes himself up slowly, allowing Marvin to adjust the pillows behind him without complaint. “I forgot where I was,” he admits, his eyes clearing a little. “I forgot I was…” He makes a stilted gesture.

Marvin’s mouth tightens. That seems to keep happening, doesn’t it? Maybe he should give Ramirez a call, see if it’s something he needs to be worrying about.

Whizzer coughs, though not badly. Marvin passes him the water, which he actually drinks, draining about half of it before he passes it back.

“Here, eat something,” Marvin says, handing him the plate.

Whizzer looks up at him in surprise. “You actually cooked?”

“Hey, I can cook!” Marvin says indignantly.

Whizzer quirks an eyebrow at him. “Glad to know you’ve been learning new skills,” he says dryly. “Um, Marv?”

“Yeah, what do you need?”

“Could I get a fork?”

Marvin stares at him, then at the plate. “I forgot a fork.”

Whizzer looks like he’s torn between laughing at him and being genuinely concerned. “Did you get enough sleep last night?” he says wryly.

“Apparently not,” Marvin groans, rubbing at his aching head. “Eat your toast, I’ll go get you a fork.”

Whizzer nibbles at the toast compliantly.

In the kitchen, he spends a good few minutes trying to remember where he put the dairy forks before recalling that he hasn’t kept separate meat and dairy silverware since divorcing Trina. Damn, he’s getting as bad as Whizzer, here. Maybe he really does need a nap.

When he finally returns, Whizzer’s still only halfway through the toast, though to be fair to him he’s apparently been scooping up the eggs with it, too. “Here,” Marvin says, holding out the fork to him. He nods at the plate. “Is that cold? Do you want me to heat it up?”

“It’s fine,” Whizzer says. “Sit down.”

He does, gratefully.

Whizzer takes a small bite of the eggs, then lays down the fork on the plate. “Need a break. Yes, I’ll eat more of it,” he adds impatiently as Marvin opens his mouth. “Just… give me a minute, first.”

“How about some water?” Marvin says, going to stand to get it for him.

“Marv, just sit.” Whizzer’s watching him with the same narrow-eyed look he was wearing last night, when he pulled him into the bed. “Have you had your coffee yet?”

“Haven’t gotten there. I still need to check my phone, see who was calling—”

“It can wait,” Whizzer says. “Just sit with me.”

He feels a rush of warmth that he hopes doesn’t show on his face. “Of course.”

Whizzer smiles at him, then takes another careful bite of his eggs. “It’s good,” he says, swallowing. “When’d you learn to cook?”

“I can really only do the basics,” he admits. “Eggs, pasta, that sort of thing.”

Whizzer shrugs. “I’m not exactly a gourmet chef, either.”

That’s certainly true, although he wasn’t terrible. Just… uninspired. “I got lucky, living next to a caterer,” he says, instead of opening up that can of worms. “Though she’s a little hit-or-miss.”

“The brownies,” Whizzer says. “I remember. I forgot that you’re allergic to peanuts.” He sounds almost ashamed about it.

So Marvin tells him, “I couldn’t remember what you used to eat for breakfast. I couldn’t even remember if you _did_ eat breakfast.”

“I didn’t,” Whizzer says. He looks at Marvin with a warm little smile. “I still don’t, mostly.”

Marvin says, gently, “I think that’s going to have to change.”

Whizzer looks back down at the plate, face abruptly souring. “Everything is going to have to change.”

Marvin frowns. “What do you mean?”

Whizzer sighs, which sets him coughing. Marvin takes the plate away, taking the opportunity to test with his finger if the eggs have gone cold, which they have. Whizzer’s had maybe a third of them, plus half the toast, which simply isn’t enough food. He’s starting to consider ways to slip him the anti-nausea pill against his knowledge, just to get him to take the damn thing.

Whizzer stops coughing, and Marvin stands, grabbing him the water with the plate balanced in his other hand. He’s back to small sips, so either his stomach is hurting or his throat is. “I’ll go heat this up for you,” he says, brandishing the plate. “You need to eat more of it.”

“No, don’t bother,” Whizzer says hoarsely. “I don’t mind it cold.”

Marvin hesitates. He has a vague idea that reheated eggs are going to taste worse than cold ones, but since he’s never let his breakfast get cold in his life, he wouldn’t really know. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Whizzer says. “It’s fine.”

Marvin passes him back the plate, which he takes without enthusiasm. Still, he takes another small bite as Marvin sits back down on the bed.

“So… you were saying…” he prompts him cautiously.

Whizzer looks up at him, then away, poking dully at the eggs. “Nothing. It’s stupid.”

Marvin watches him, unsure what to say. Should he try to force him to talk about it? Is it better for him to let it go? Why is it that he never seems to know the right thing to do? “You can tell me,” he says, with what he hopes is something like assurance. “If you want to.”

“I… don’t really know what to say,” Whizzer admits. “It just feels like…”

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it, shaking his head.

“You can tell me,” Marvin says again, more sincerely this time. He puts his hand on Whizzer’s knee, buried under the blankets. “I’m listening.”

Whizzer twitches a small smile. “I don’t know,” he says again. “Everything’s different, now. It’s like I’m… like I’m in someone else’s life.”

Marvin waits, feeling his brow crease.

“I just… I don’t have much, you know?” There’s a cautiousness in his voice, now, a wall going up as he watches, brick by cracking brick. “And I’ve never _needed_ much, I got by just fine, but now…” He shrugs, listlessly. “I’m going to need so much. Medications, and tests, and appointments, and…”

“Listen, if you want, I can help you with the insurance thing,” Marvin says cautiously. “I’m sure there are subsidies for—” He stops, unsure how to put it.

“A guy with AIDS?” Whizzer finishes for him. He smiles bitterly. “There are. Apparently I’d be eligible for Medicaid, now.”

“There you go, then,” Marvin says, heartened.

But Whizzer shakes his head. “It’s not just the money. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the money part sucks. But that’s not the main thing.” His voice is rising now, getting fast and frantic, the wall crumbling just as fast as it was built. “It’s the _time_ ,” he says. “Everything takes so much fucking _time_. I mean, think about it, Marv, I just wasted nearly a whole week in the hospital. That’s time I’ll never get back, and who knows how much I have _left_ —”

“Hey, hey, whoa,” Marvin interrupts, his grip tightening involuntarily on Whizzer’s knee. “What the hell do you mean, how much you have left?”

Whizzer looks away.

“Whizzer, hey, look at me,” Marvin says. “Just look at me for a second.” He does, finally, his eyes so hopeless that Marvin can feel his heart start to crack. “ _Hey_. You have your whole life ahead of you, kid. You have plenty of time.”

“Yeah,” Whizzer says, unconvincingly. “Sorry. You’re right.”

“You’re going to get old, Whiz,” Marvin goes on anyway. “You’re going to get back pain, and need reading glasses, and lose all your hair.” Whizzer makes an affronted noise, and Marvin grins. “I can just see you now,” he teases, “with a toupée, and wearing those old man pull-on jeans—”

“Ohmygod, Marvin, stop,” Whizzer says. “You’re gonna make me throw up.” But he’s fighting off a smile, and there’s a glimmer of light coming slowly back into his eyes, even as he looks down again at the plate in his lap.

“I get that you’re scared,” Marvin says quietly. “But you _are_ going to get better, Whizzer. You won’t feel like this forever.” He puts a hand on his wrist, waiting until he looks back up at him. “And you’re not alone.”

He’s never seen Whizzer look so unguarded as he does at that moment.

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “Okay.” He even eats most of the eggs, after that.

So maybe Marvin can do this, after all.

* * *

As predicted, there are several angry voicemails on his phone by the time he gets around to it, which he forces himself to listen to as he sips slowly at his coffee. He finished off the rest of Whizzer’s eggs, once it was clear he was about to faceplant in them; between that and the caffeine, he’s actually starting to feel a little human, even somewhat confident. He listens to Kathleen’s rants with equanimity, knowing that she’ll cool down once he gets her something for the campaign. He’s good at his job; she’ll forgive him soon enough.

He works for a solid few hours, checking on Whizzer every now and again to make sure his oxygen levels are staying mostly steady, his temperature not rising. Whizzer only wakes once; he drinks some water without complaint, then goes right back to sleep. It turns out that it isn’t very difficult to care for someone when they just spend most of their time sleeping. Go figure.

At 1:00, he wakes him again, parceling out the ARV, the iron supplement, and the antihistamine. Whizzer takes the first two without much fuss, but he hesitates over the antihistamine, staring at it with mistrust. “Do I still have to take this?”

“The doctor says you do,” Marvin says. “Here, have some pasta.” He hands him the plate he’d set on the end table, thankful that he’s remembered to include a fork this time.

Whizzer grimaces, but he takes it, shuffling his legs aside so Marvin can take a seat. “Where’s yours?” he asks, rolling some of the pasta around with the fork.

“In the kitchen. I’ll eat when you’re done.”

“Won’t it get cold?”

“There’s this thing called a microwave,” Marvin says. “Stop playing with that and eat it.”

“Bossy,” Whizzer mutters to the plate.

“Wouldn’t have to be if you’d eat your damn food.”

“Is this what you’re like with Jason?” Whizzer says. “No wonder the kid’s so moody half the time.”

“Jason’s always been moody. Eat your pasta.”

“And you’ve always been bossy,” Whizzer mutters, but he does.

Halfway through, he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, and Marvin thinks regretfully that maybe it wasn’t the best idea to give him the antihistamine right before lunch. “Just a few more bites,” he coaxes, as Whizzer sets down the plate with a yawn. “Then you can go back to sleep.”

“Don’ wanna sleep,” Whizzer mumbles. “Been sleepin’ all day.”

“That never used to bother you,” Marvin points out with a smirk.

Whizzer tries to glare at him, but he’s too drowsy to really make it stick. Instead, he starts to cough, Marvin grabbing the plate from his lap before he can topple it over onto the bed.

He leans back against the pillows when the fit passes, clearly spent. Still, he’s trying to stay awake, whether to keep him company or just out of spite against the antihistamine Marvin isn’t sure. “How’s work going?” he says, just barely avoiding slurring his words. “Was your boss mad?”

“Yeah, she was pretty pissed. No, don’t apologize,” he adds quickly as Whizzer mumbles something repentant. “She’ll get over it. Honestly, I think I’ll probably do better this way, without her breathing down my neck.”

Whizzer yawns. “What’re you workin’ on?”

“A big ad campaign,” he says, setting the plate down on the end table. He’d make Whizzer eat more of it, but he’s a little afraid he’d actually choke. “For one of our wealthiest clients, so it’s kind of a high-pressure job.”

“That sucks,” Whizzer says, yawning again.

Marvin reaches up to stroke his hair, ignoring how lank and stringy it’s gotten. Maybe the next time Whizzer wakes up they can see if he’s up for a shower. “It’s not so bad,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm. “At least she trusts me to handle those big accounts, you know? When Richard was still there, he—” He launches into a long, detailed story that even he isn’t entirely certain where it’s going.

By the time he winds to a stop, Whizzer’s eyes are closed and his breathing heavy but even. Marvin smiles, easing his hand out of where it’s being crushed into the pillows. Whizzer makes a soft sound but doesn’t wake. He looks peaceful, content, his face smooth and unworried. Marvin sighs, swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat. He can’t seem to remember a time when he’s seen him that way while awake.

* * *

At 4:00, he brings Whizzer a bowl of soup, from a can he found buried in the back of a cupboard. Whizzer wakes slowly, still fighting off the antihistamine as he takes slow swallows.

“Think you’d want to take a shower tonight?” Marvin asks him, once he seems awake enough to process the question.

Whizzer’s eyes light up. “Yes, please,” he says fervently. “I feel gross.”

“Yeah, you’ve been sweating,” Marvin says. “I need to check your temperature, when you’re done with that.”

“I could be done now,” Whizzer says hopefully.

Marvin frowns at him. “You haven’t even had half of it yet.”

Whizzer takes another sulky swallow.

“Seriously, Whiz,” Marvin says, bracing himself for the argument he knows he’s about to start. “The anti-nausea—”

“Marvin,” Whizzer says warningly. “Leave it.”

Marvin shakes his head, frustrated. “I don’t get why you’re so against it! If it’s going to help you—”

“Because I’m already on too much medication as it is,” Whizzer says, his voice low and furious. “I don’t need another one—”

“But you need to be _eating_ , Whizzer.” He stares at him imploringly. “You’re not going to get better if you can’t even eat.”

“I’m eating fine,” Whizzer says. He takes another mouthful of the soup to prove it, though he can’t quite hide the grimace on his face as he lowers the spoon.

Marvin sighs. “If you get through that whole bowl,” he says, “I’ll leave it alone. Promise.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, but he just says, “Fine.”

And he does make it through the whole bowl, or at least enough of it that Marvin is going to count it as a win.

After he takes his temperature, which to Marvin’s relief is down to about 100, Whizzer falls back asleep, worn out from the soup and the antihistamine both. His oxygen levels are holding steady, too, hovering between 91 and 92%, only really dropping when he coughs. Which he’s been doing often, but not nearly as often as he was at the beginning of the week. Marvin’s beginning to hope that maybe he really is starting to get better after all.

He goes out into the kitchen to call his boss, updating her on the progress on the Applebaum campaign. Once she’s no longer actively spitting venom in his ear (much less so than on the voicemails this morning, though; he’s hopeful that she might even be somewhat neutral towards him by the end of the week), he turns on the TV, zoning out for a few hours with occasional stops to check in on Whizzer.

The third time he does this, Whizzer’s eyes are open, brightening as he walks into the room. “Hey, you’re awake,” Marvin says, pleasantly surprised. “Why didn’t you call for me?”

“Just woke up,” Whizzer says, his voice low and gravelly. “Um, I kind of need the bathroom, though.”

“Of course,” Marvin says, hurrying to his side. “Here—”

But Whizzer’s already getting up, ignoring Marvin’s attempts to help. He stands on his own, even takes the first few steps on his own. Then Marvin grabs him, despite his protests, but he really doesn’t need much support as they head over to the bathroom. Sleeping all day has done him a world of good, it seems. He probably could have managed the whole thing without much help at all.

Which is why Marvin says, as they reach the door, “You want to take that shower now?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Whizzer says. “Please.”

“I’ll get you a towel. The faucet turns toward the wall. Hold on.” He leans Whizzer against the door, who huffs but stays put, then walks quickly over to the closet for a towel. He still has some that Whizzer had picked out himself, back when he’d still had one of Marvin’s credit cards to use at his discretion ( _that_ had changed very quickly, once he had realized just how much money those designer shirts actually cost). Like everything Whizzer likes, they’re big, expensive, and pleasing to the touch; Marvin would never admit it, but they’re much better than the scratchy bargain bin towels he always buys for himself.

“Here, I’ll hang it on the rack for you,” he says, walking Whizzer carefully into the bathroom. It’s just big enough for the two of them to stand in, though there’s certainly no extra room to maneuver around in. He hangs up the towel, turning back to Whizzer with the first crawling sensation of misgiving starting up in his stomach. “You’ll be okay?”

But Whizzer is standing on his own, some color in his cheeks and his breathing relatively steady, watching him with impatience that, he thinks, might be masking some lurking fondness in his eyes. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, but he’ll take it. Besides, Whizzer really does need a shower. Not to mention a shave; he’s never seen so much stubble on his face before.

“I’ll be fine,” Whizzer assures him.

“Don’t take one of your thirty minute meditation sessions,” Marvin warns him.

“Meditation?” Whizzer says with a wink. “That’s one I haven’t heard before.”

“ _Whizzer._ ”

Whizzer laughs. “I’ll be quick, I promise. Go away.”

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Marvin says. “If you need anything, call for me.”

“I need to take a shower,” Whizzer says, pushing him lightly. “Go.”

With one last look over his shoulder, he goes.

Standing outside the door proves to be both a very boring and a very stressful activity. The water running is a soothing sound, but every small noise beneath it makes him jump: something being set down against the sink with a clang, the squeak of the shower curtain being pulled back, the thump of bottles being picked up and put down. Then there’s quiet, for a while, just the rush of water, until finally that stops, too. The silence rings in his ears, sets his nerves on end. He’s just considering knocking on the door to make sure everything is alright when he suddenly hears a loud thud.

His heart stops.

“Oh god,” he says to no one, and then he’s pounding on the door, frantically calling Whizzer’s name. There’s no answer, and he wrenches open the door with a sick, panicked fury, sparing a thought to be grateful that Whizzer hadn’t locked it. There’s so much steam in the air that it takes him a second for his eyes to adjust, and that’s when he realizes what he’d heard: Whizzer sitting down, hard, on the lid of the closed toilet seat, panting harshly with his eyes closed and shampoo still frothing in his hair.

So he’s not unconscious, thank the fucking lord. But he looks like he’s damn well getting there.

Marvin rushes to him, the door banging against the wall in his haste. Whizzer’s eyes open, watching him with dull remorse. It was too soon for this, Marvin thinks furiously, grabbing Whizzer’s thin shoulders with too much force. He wasn’t ready for this, he’s too sick, Marvin should have _known better_ —

“’m okay,” Whizzer gasps, and then he moans, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Don’t talk,” Marvin says, moving his hand frantically to the back of Whizzer’s neck. It’s so hot that he actually hisses a little, and he _knows_ that Whizzer just took a hot shower, of course his skin is warm, but he’s been feverish, too, and Ramirez told him to keep an eye on that, he _told_ him, and instead Marvin just went and made it worse, and at least with his hand here if Whizzer passes out he won’t hit his head against the wall—

“I’m fine,” Whizzer pants. “I’m fine—” Then he turns and vomits in the sink.

Marvin rubs his back on autopilot, all of his thought processes overtaken by sheer horror. Whizzer is coughing now, clenching his hands into weak fists, nearly banging his head against the sink before Marvin pulls him upright with far less gentleness than he deserves. “Okay,” he hears himself babbling, from a great distance. “Okay, Whiz, you’re okay, it’s okay—”

Whizzer can’t speak, his chest heaving. Naked like this, soaked and trembling, he looks so much smaller, so much easier to break. “Just breathe,” Marvin says desperately. “Please, Whizzer, don’t do this to me—please, just keep breathing, come on—”

“Sorry,” Whizzer gasps, so breathless he can barely form the word.

“No, don’t talk, save your breath,” Marvin says rapidly. Whizzer reaches for him, grasps tightly onto his wrist, closing his eyes with another pained little moan. “It’s okay,” Marvin says again. “I’m here, I’m right here, you’re going to be okay—”

Whizzer nods, a short, jerky movement, his eyes still squeezed shut. Marvin holds him, his heart pounding, his thoughts racing uselessly around in his head. He needs to call Ramirez, he needs to get him back to the hospital, where they can help him, where they wouldn’t have let this happen—

“Think it’s—passing,” Whizzer pants, curling forward to rest his wet head against Marvin’s chest. “Not as dizzy—”

“Just stay still,” Marvin says hurriedly. He puts a hand on Whizzer’s back, then the back of his neck, which is still hot but no longer burning, a cold sweat gathering beneath his fingers. “Just don’t pass out on me, Whizzer, please—”

“Not gonna,” Whizzer gasps. “Promise, Marv—not gonna—”

“Shh, shh, just breathe.” Okay, okay, he can do this, he can get them through this. He needs to just take a moment, take a breath himself. What did Mendel always used to tell him? Turn it into something useful? He can do that. He can make this right.

God, he can’t believe he’s thinking about Mendel at a time like this.

“Okay, Whiz, we’re going to get you back to the hospital,” he starts, planning out the steps in his head: get him to the bedroom, get him dressed, bring him down to the car…

But Whizzer shoots up and out of his hold so fast he nearly does pass out. “No!”

Marvin grabs him again, panic thrumming through his fingers in tingling waves. “Don’t do that!”

“No hospital,” Whizzer pants, and then he starts to cough again, a barking, hollow sound that leaves him too little air to even begin to speak. Which is just as well: Marvin knows exactly what he wants to say, and at this point, he couldn’t care less.

“Yes hospital,” he says roughly. “Whizzer, this was a stupid idea in the first place, it’s even stupider now—”

Whizzer shakes his head, only stopping when Marvin puts a hand on his cheek to hold him still. “Stop moving,” he says. “Just focus on breathing, Whizzer, please.”

All his flimsy confidence from a moment ago is tearing into shreds. How is he going to do this? He’ll be lucky if Whizzer doesn’t topple right over, how the hell is he going to get him standing, let alone walking down to the car?

“No,” Whizzer chokes out. “No—hospital—”

“Stop it, stop it, Whizzer,” Marvin says desperately. “You’re making it worse, just hold still.” He caresses Whizzer’s cheek frantically with his thumb, gripping his shoulder so tight he’s probably bruising it.

Whizzer grasps his wrist again, his fingers trembling. He’s wheezing sharply, he’s bone pale and sweating, but his eyes are focused, trained on him. For a moment, for a long series of moments, Marvin simply watches him, helpless to do anything else.

Finally, finally, Whizzer’s breathing grows a little steadier. Marvin takes a deep, shaking breath, feeling his own lungs calling desperately for air. “Okay,” he says. Another, his fingers tingling. “If I let go of you, are you going to fall over?”

“No,” Whizzer gasps.

Cautiously, he loosens his grip, watching Whizzer closely. But he stays upright, if hunched, only listing a little against the sink. “Okay,” Marvin says again, swallowing. “I’m going to grab you your towel. Don’t move.”

“Wait,” Whizzer says. Marvin turns back, reaching for him on instinct, but Whizzer just says, “My hair—”

“Really, Whizzer?” Marvin snaps. “Is now the time?”

Whizzer glares at him. “Always—the time—”

“For christ’s sake, you vain lunatic—” But he’s starting to smile, can feel it chiseling into the panic still racing in his chest. And Whizzer’s got a point, anyway: he still has shampoo in his hair, clumping it into white tufts. He can’t take him to the hospital like that. He’ll have to rinse it out.

Fuck.

“Fine, okay,” he says, grabbing Whizzer’s arms again. “Let’s get you up.”

Whizzer clings to him as he pulls him to his feet, his legs shaking badly. “Sorry,” he pants, trying to stand on his own. “’m okay—”

“Don’t fight me,” Marvin grunts. It’s a lot harder to support someone who’s trying to push away, and Marvin’s worked hard on his upper body strength, but despite how thin he’s gotten Whizzer is still heavy when he’s taking his full weight. “Just let me help you.”

For once, Whizzer actually listens.

He hands him into the tub, cautious of the wet floor. “Sit,” he tells him, supporting him carefully as Whizzer does. He grabs the towel off the rack, throwing it onto the floor; it’s going to get even more soaked in here in a moment, and he can’t risk having him slip and fall as he gets out. If Marvin will even be able to get him out. Jesus christ.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m going to turn the water on.” Whizzer does, leaning against the side of the tub as Marvin turns on the faucet, careful to keep the water lukewarm. Whizzer breaks out into goosebumps as soon as it hits his skin, but he’s still flushed and feverish, and Marvin’s pretty sure that making the water too hot is what got them into this mess in the first place. Or part of it, anyway.

He scrubs his hands gently through his hair, letting the soap run through his fingers. Whizzer is loose and pliant in his hold, his head moving lightly with the motion. Marvin is getting soaked, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin, but: Whizzer is relaxing, his shoulders easing, his face growing calm and content. He’s still breathing harshly, and Marvin is a little worried that the water isn’t helping, but despite everything…

This is the closest to happy that Marvin has seen him since this entire ordeal started. Since a week ago, since a year and a half ago, possibly even since they met. And all it took was some water and soap, and Marvin’s hands in his hair.

After a moment he turns off the faucet, keeping a careful hand on Whizzer’s shoulder. “Your hair’s all clean, princess,” he says, leaning him back against the shower wall. Whizzer doesn’t move, watching him with heavy-lidded eyes as he stands, pulling at his wet shirt with a grimace. “I’m going to get you another towel. Don’t try to get up.”

“Not planning—on it,” Whizzer agrees.

There’s another of those fluffy towels in the closet, which he snatches without regard for the ones on top of it, tumbling them onto the floor in his haste. He leaves them; he can pick them up later. It’s not like Whizzer is going to be up for chastising him about it anytime soon.

When he returns Whizzer is sitting where he left him, looking drawn and exhausted. Marvin helps him carefully up, wrapping the towel around him. It somehow emphasizes all the weight he’s lost even more than his actual nakedness ever did.

By the time they get back to the bedroom, Whizzer is trembling again and starting to cough. Marvin lowers him onto the bed, hovering uselessly with his hands on his hips. Should he get him some water? But what if he throws it back up? They’ll have an IV, at the hospital—maybe he should just wait until then—

Whizzer makes a frustrated noise as the coughing stumbles to an end, pressing his hand hard to his chest. “Does that hurt?” Marvin says. “Do you need—”

“‘m fine,” Whizzer says. “Stop—stressing.” His voice is so scratchy that Marvin hands him the glass of water after all.

“I’m always stressing,” he says. “It’s a key part of my personality.”

Whizzer laughs, then coughs again. Right: not the time for jokes.

He takes the water back, placing it on the end table, then turns back to Whizzer, still wrapped tightly in the towel. “You’re going to have to wear something of mine,” he realizes. The pajamas Whizzer was wearing earlier badly need a wash, and the suitcase he brought had only been packed for one night.

Whizzer makes a face. “God—help me.”

Marvin rolls his eyes. “You’ll survive.” He pulls a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt out of a drawer, Whizzer watching him with snobbish distaste. But he doesn’t argue as Marvin hands them to him, shoving the towel down around his waist to pull on the shirt.

Marvin turns his back, even though it seems a little silly at this point. But it was one thing when he was on the verge of blacking out; it’s another when he’s relatively alert, even though he can hear him struggling behind him.

After a moment of quiet, he turns back around, to find Whizzer curled up against the pillows, the sweatpants slung low around his hips and the shirt hanging loose around his stomach. He’s closed his eyes, and for a moment the panic roars back to life, because what if he’s collapsed after all, what if he’s unconscious? But Whizzer shifts his head uncomfortably, groaning a little as he tries to find a better position. So he’s just falling asleep, then, or trying to. He may as well let him, for now; he’s going to need to get some help to get him all the way down to the car.

So he pulls a blanket over him, the green one that he bought him, chuckling a little as Whizzer tugs it drowsily up to his chin. He lets out a small sigh, and then he’s dozing, his wet hair still clumped on his forehead. Marvin combs it carefully aside with his fingers, feeling the heat of his skin beneath it. Is it just residual panic, or can he actually feel his temperature rising?

He shakes himself, forces himself to take a deep breath. There’s no time to panic, not now. He needs to make a call.

* * *

“What the hell, Marvin?” is the first thing Charlotte says when she answers the phone.

He blinks, nonplussed. “Uh—hi?”

“What time is it?” she demands. She sounds furious, and normally that would scare him more than a little, but he’s gone through too many emotions in the last half hour to have any extras left to spare.

So: “7:00?” he guesses.

“It’s 7:30,” she spits at him. “And you waited until _now_ to call and tell me that you took him home?”

Oh. So Ramirez must have told her, then.

“Actually,” he says, because in for a penny… “I’m calling to ask for your help in bringing him back.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath on the line. “What happened?”

He does have room for an emotion left, after all, it seems: shame. “I let him take a shower,” he confesses. “And it… wasn’t a good idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Charlotte hisses. “Did he hit his head? Is he bleeding at all?”

“He didn’t fall,” Marvin says quickly. “He almost did, but he didn’t.”

“Well, good,” she says cautiously. “How is he doing now?”

“He’s asleep. Breathing okay, but he’s at 89%, and Ramirez said to call if he got below 90—”

“That’s not actually too bad,” she says, in a tone of voice that suggests she doesn’t want to admit it. “How long has he been asleep?”

“Only a couple minutes, I called you right away.”

“Well, you did _one_ thing right, anyway.” He winces; he deserved that. He deserves a lot worse.

“I’m here until 8:00,” she says, her voice brisk. “I’ll come over when I get home. Keep him in the damn bed until then, Marvin.”

“I will,” he says, swallowing hard.

“And see if you can get him to eat,” she adds as an afterthought.

“He was eating earlier, but he just threw up,” Marvin says. “I don’t want to set him off again.”

“Doesn’t he have an anti-emetic?”

“He won’t take it.”

“Well, _get him to_.”

He’d like to see _her_ try, but he doesn’t have it in him to fight with her right now.

“I’ll be there soon,” she says, her voice abruptly softer. “Just keep him calm until I get there.”

“Right,” he chokes out. “Thanks.”

She hangs up, and he shudders, staring blankly down at his phone. He needs to change his shirt, he needs to clean up the bathroom, he needs to pick up those towels in the hall, but he can’t seem to get himself to move, or stop shaking. Why did he ever think he could do this? When has he ever managed to help anyone, let alone Whizzer, let alone a Whizzer who’s so sick he can’t even stand on his own?

Marvin is good for exactly two things: his money, and his brain. But Whizzer won’t take his money, and he can’t out-think this disease.

His breathing has gotten shallow and fast; he forces himself to sit on the couch, to take deep breaths, his head in his hands. He’ll get up in a moment, he’ll do what has to get done. But he just needs a moment to fall apart a little, first.

* * *

Charlotte pounds on the door at exactly 8:30; she must have rushed home, possibly even left early. Cordelia is standing behind her, a smudge of pink icing on her cheek. She’s carrying several Tupperware containers, which she puts right into his fridge without any hesitation.

So, business as usual, then.

“He’s in the bedroom,” he says to Charlotte. “Still asleep.” He had fought hard with himself over waking him to get him to eat, but in the end, his own cowardice and Whizzer’s peacefully sleeping face had won out. Not to mention that he had already exhausted all of his cooking capabilities, and had no idea what else to feed him.

“O2 sat?” Charlotte asks, walking purposefully toward the bedroom. “Sorry—oxygen levels?”

Yes, he had guessed that, he’s not an idiot. “91%,” he says. It had started to rise not long after he got off the phone with her, to his immense relief.

“What’s his temperature?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I didn’t want to wake him up to check.”

“Well, you have to wake him up now,” she says, pushing through the half-open door.

Whizzer is still curled up under the blanket, completely unaware of the three of them as they enter. Marvin takes a deep breath, steeling himself. This is going to be a battle, he knows. And one that he lost, the last time.

“Whizzer,” he says, bending down to lightly shake his shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

Whizzer groans, rocking back out of his grasp. “Noooo.”

Despite everything, Marvin laughs. He’s pretty sure he hears Cordelia giggling a little, too. “Yes, Whiz. Come on.” He flicks his ear, grinning when Whizzer slaps his hand away. “Up.”

“You’re such an ass,” Whizzer grunts, opening his eyes. And then he sees Charlotte and Cordelia, hovering behind Marvin, and his face draws still.

“Hi, Whizzer,” Cordelia says cheerfully.

Whizzer pulls himself up, watching them warily. “Hi.”

“How are you feeling?” Charlotte asks.

“Fine,” Whizzer says, and then immediately starts to cough.

“I heard you had some trouble, earlier,” Charlotte says.

Whizzer looks up at Marvin, still coughing. “Fine—now.”

Marvin passes him the water. He’s not really sure what else to do with himself.

“I’m going to check your oxygen levels, okay?” Charlotte says. He nods, still watching her suspiciously. “And how about your temperature, can I check on that?”

“Sure,” he rasps, glancing up at Marvin again.

She turns to him, her face set. “Marvin, why don’t you and Cordelia wait in the living room for a bit.” It’s not a suggestion.

“But—” He looks down at Whizzer, sitting stiff and strained, his shoulders taut. There’s a look of lurking betrayal in his eyes that hits at his heart like a sledge hammer. “Right. Yeah.”

He follows Cordelia out into the hall.

In the living room, Cordelia folds her legs underneath her on the couch, throwing her arm across the cushions. “So what happened?”

Do they really have to talk about this? Why can’t they just sit here in tense, uncomfortable silence like real adults? “He nearly passed out,” he says shortly.

“Oh.” She shifts on the couch, watching him with a pure lack of judgment that he’s actually finding a little unsettling. “Nearly?”

“Yeah, he—” He sighs. “He got close, but he got through it.”

“Well, that’s good,” she says. “So why are you so upset?”

He stares at her. “Because he nearly passed out,” he says slowly.

She smiles, kindly. “But he didn’t. And he’s okay now, isn’t he?”

“You have a pretty loose definition of ‘okay.’”

She sighs, patting the couch beside her. “Marvin, I know you’re a worrywart,” she says as he reluctantly sits. “But he’s doing a lot better than he was last week, or even when I saw him in the hospital a few days ago. So how come you seem just as freaked out now as you were then?”

“Because he wasn’t relying on _me_ then!” he bursts out. “Dammit, Cordelia, this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, and that’s fucking saying a lot!” He buries his head in his hands, swallowing a groan. “I’m not a caretaker,” he says into his palms. “I’m not even a good fucking person. Why he seems to trust me so much, with his damn _life_ …” He shakes his head. “I don’t understand it at all.”

Cordelia puts a hand on his shoulder. “You _are_ a good person, Marvin,” she says softly. “And he trusts you because he knows that.”

“I’m not.” There’s something in him that’s starting to splinter, and it hurts, it hurts so much, but he can’t seem to make it stop. “I’m not a good person. Cordelia, I hit my wife, I fucked up my son, I kicked Whizzer to the curb… I’m a psychotic, selfish asshole, I always have been, and I—” She’s started rubbing his back, and the lump in his throat is getting too big to talk around, his shoulders starting to shake. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t.”

She tugs at him, and he fights her for a second before he realizes she’s pulling him in for a hug. And he could keep fighting her, he could try to salvage what’s left of his dignity, but at this point… why bother? He’s already fucked up everything he cares about, everyone he loves. What’s his dignity worth in the face of that?

So he lets her hold him, and rub his back, and for the first time in a long time, he lets himself cry.

He isn’t sure how long it’s been when she pulls back, looking him firmly in the eye. “Feeling better?”

He kind of hates to admit it, but: “Yeah,” he croaks.

She smiles. “Good.” Then she swats his shoulder.

“Hey!” he yelps. “What was that for?”

“For not coming to us earlier, you stupid _man_ ,” she exclaims. “We live right next door! We’re not hard to find!”

He gapes at her. “I—I didn’t think of it.”

“I _know_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Because god forbid you ever ask anyone for help. Marvin, we’re your friends. We’re here for you.”

His eyes are starting to burn again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“And you _can_ do this,” she says. “You are.”

He brushes impatiently at his cheeks. “I need a tissue.”

She laughs. “Do you even have any?” she teases. “Or are you too much of a _man_ to use anything but toilet paper?”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, getting off the couch with a groan. “Yes, I have tissues, they’re in the closet.” Where he’s still left those towels, on the floor. Hey, at least he cleaned the bathroom.

He grabs a box from the back, shoving the towels more or less into place. He’s crumpling the used tissue in his pocket when he suddenly hears Whizzer’s voice, raised and breathless: “Not—going—back!”

“Whizzer, I know you’re angry, but you need to keep very calm and still right now,” Charlotte says, and it’s the concern in her voice that has him hurrying over to the bedroom, uncaring whether or not he’s welcomed.

“What’s going on?” he says, striding into the room.

Whizzer looks up at him, his face flushed bright, breathing harsh and strained. “I won’t—go—”

“Whizzer, you need to calm down,” Charlotte starts, from where she’s hovering over him. “Just try to take a deep breath—”

“No—”

“I need you to—”

“I _won’t_ —”

“Enough,” Marvin snaps, at both of them. “Whizzer, shut your mouth, Charlotte’s just trying to help you. Charlotte, he can’t calm down while you’re standing over him like that, back off.”

They both stare at him, but Charlotte does move back a little, and Whizzer says nothing. So Marvin’s going to count it as a win.

He moves over to the bed, sitting carefully in his usual spot by Whizzer’s hip. “What happened?” he says to Charlotte, putting a quelling hand on Whizzer’s knee as he opens his mouth to answer.

“He got agitated, and his O2 sat dropped,” she reports. “He needs to sit very still and not talk for a few minutes to bring it back up to a safe level.”

“Okay,” Marvin says, trying not to focus too much on the word _safe_. “You heard her, Whiz. Take it easy for a minute.”

Whizzer glares at him, his chest heaving, opening his mouth again despite Marvin’s warning frown. But then he stops, an odd look coming into his eyes. “Were you—crying?” he pants.

Marvin can feel his cheeks heat. “No.”

Whizzer’s face drops, all the anger flooding out of him so fast it almost makes Marvin dizzy. “Marv—”

“Whizzer, please stop talking,” Marvin begs. “Get some air in you first, then you can mock me all you want.”

Whizzer smiles at him, sadly. There’s still that odd look in his eyes: pity? guilt? god forbid, concern? He raises a hand to Marvin’s face, cupping it gently. Marvin holds very still, swallowing hard. This is… unexpected. And… nice.

Charlotte clears her throat, and he jumps, Whizzer’s hand falling away. He had completely forgotten she was even in the room.

“Sorry,” she says awkwardly, “but Marvin, if you can check the oximeter…?”

“Right,” he says, hoping they both ignore the way his voice cracks. He reaches for Whizzer’s other hand, reading out the number just a touch unsteadily. “88%.”

“Good,” Charlotte says. “It’s going up. Keep sitting still, Whizzer, and don’t try to talk until we get into the 90s at least.”

He rolls his eyes, but he sits still.

Marvin takes a deep breath, looking up at Charlotte. “Let me guess,” he says. “He doesn’t want to go back to the hospital.”

Charlotte sighs. “That’s putting it lightly, I think.”

He turns back to Whizzer, who looks frustrated and angry, bordering on distraught. He’s still breathing so hard, his chest rattling with every inhale, fever still flushing his cheeks. And Marvin can’t get the image out of his head of him half-conscious in the bathroom, heaving for breath, retching into the sink with cold sweat beading on the back of his neck.

But he’s remembering, too, how miserable Whizzer had been in the hospital. The way he’d snapped at him, how he’d sobbed so hard he couldn’t breathe, how dull and distant his eyes had gotten. It’s only been one day, who knows if it will last, but that calm he’d seen on his face earlier, when he was washing his hair… he’d give up a lot more than just his bed and his bathtub to give Whizzer something approaching that peace.

And now that he’s calmed down himself, now that he’s finally starting to think clearly again… “Charlotte,” he says quietly. “How bad is this, really?”

A cautious hope lights in Whizzer’s eyes.

Charlotte frowns at him. “His oxygen levels? They’re rising, so that’s good news. He’s not going to lose consciousness, as long as he keeps sitting quietly.”

“Not just that,” Marvin says. “All of it.”

She looks at him frankly. “What are you asking me?”

“If he stays here,” Marvin starts, and she opens her mouth to cut him off, but he keeps going anyway, “and he stays in bed, and he takes all his meds… is he going to be okay?”

Charlotte sighs, putting a hand on her hip. “I won’t lie,” she says, resigned, “he’s doing better than I expected. But the truth is, I just don’t know, Marvin. If something does go wrong, and it still could…” She shrugs. “It could get bad.”

“Before the shower, he was doing pretty well,” Marvin says. “The only reason I let him take it in the first place is because he seemed so much better.”

“But that’s my point. We don’t really know how he’s doing unless he’s being monitored. And without the X-rays, it’s impossible to know how fast the infection is clearing.”

“Do I get—a say?” Whizzer says unexpectedly.

Marvin frowns at him. “Whizzer, you’re not supposed to be talking.”

Whizzer smiles smugly, holding up his hand. “90%.”

He looks so proud of himself that Marvin actually laughs. Even Charlotte smiles, some of the sternness dissolving from her eyes. “Okay, Whizzer, just keep it brief,” she says. “Don’t strain your lungs too much right now.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, or as deep a breath as he can manage. “It _is_ —clearing,” he starts. “It’s getting—better. I can feel it.”

“That’s good,” Charlotte says cautiously, “but as I was saying—”

“If it gets—worse,” Whizzer interrupts. “I’ll go back. No arguments.”

Marvin looks at him skeptically.

“Okay, probably—some arguments,” he admits.

Marvin laughs. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“But I’m not—stupid, you know. I know I’m—sick. I know it’s bad.” He pauses to take a breath, and Marvin looks nervously down at the oximeter, relieved to see it still holding steady for the moment. “But it’s also—my decision. No one else’s.”

“Of course,” Charlotte agrees. “Of course it’s your decision. I just want you to have all the facts, first.”

Whizzer shrugs. “I know how—I feel.”

Marvin says, seriously, “If it gets worse, Whiz.”

“Then I’ll—go back.” He looks him steadily in the eye. “Promise.”

Marvin nods, knowing he means it. And it helps, to know that Whizzer won’t fight him, that they’re agreed on what to do if something goes wrong. It’s nice, to be in agreement with Whizzer, he thinks wryly. He wouldn’t mind it if that happened more often.

“If we do this,” Charlotte says, “I want to be checking in on you every day.”

Whizzer nods. “Okay.”

“And complete bed rest, too,” she adds. “That means no walking around, no showers, nothing. You can get up to use the bathroom, and that’s it.”

“Yes ma’am,” Whizzer says with a smirk.

“Don’t cop an attitude with me, young man. I know where they keep the bedpans.”

Whizzer looks up at Marvin, his eyes widening. “Is she always—like this?”

Marvin grins. “Don’t worry. Sometimes she’s worse.”

Charlotte raises an eyebrow at him. “Sure you want to insult me, Marvin? I bet Whizzer here would be very interested to know about that time you drank all that Malbec on an empty stomach.”

“Charlotte’s a wonderful person,” Marvin says hastily, as Whizzer looks up at her eagerly. “And a very good friend.”

It’s Charlotte’s turn to smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

“Whiz, one more thing,” Marvin says, abruptly sobering. “And don’t yell at me.”

“No yelling,” Whizzer agrees. “Too tired.”

He does look tired, not that Marvin’s surprised. This is probably the longest he’s been awake all day, and he’s spent most of it fighting. He’s got to be about ready to drop; he certainly looks it.

Which Marvin is happy to use to his advantage. “You threw up, earlier,” he reminds him. “And your stomach’s been hurting all day. You need to start taking those anti-nausea pills.”

“Marvin’s right, Whizzer,” Charlotte says quietly. “You need to be taking in nutrients right now, not losing them. You should still be drinking the Ensure, too.”

Whizzer sighs wearily. “Don’t gang up on me,” he mutters. “Not fair.”

“Whiz—”

“I’ll take the pills,” Whizzer says. He looks up at Marvin, his eyes unexpectedly soft. “You don’t need to—worry so much, you know. I can be reasonable.”

“I’ll believe _that_ when I see it,” Marvin says, but he smiles.

“Alright,” Charlotte says. “If I know my wife, and I do, she’s probably destroying your kitchen right now, Marvin. I’m going to go casually walk by and make sure nothing is on fire.”

“Thanks,” Marvin says. “I don’t know what she’s making, I’m all out of groceries.”

Charlotte rolls her eyes. “As if that would stop her.”

Marvin turns back to Whizzer, as she walks out of the room. “You gonna sleep for a bit?”

“I could probably sleep—for the night,” Whizzer admits. He’s already blinking slowly, fighting back a yawn.

“You still need to eat,” Marvin reminds him. “You missed two of your six meals today already.”

Whizzer groans, but he doesn’t argue. “Kay.” This time he does yawn, leaning back against the pillows.

“Why don’t you sleep for now,” Marvin says. “I’ll go make sure Cordelia is making something edible. And get those meds for you, too.”

“Kay.” He yawns again, closing his eyes.

Marvin pats his shoulder, stealing a glance at the oximeter as he gets up. It’s at 91%, and he can definitely hear the difference: he’s still breathing hard, but nowhere near as bad as he was earlier. He hesitates for a moment, then puts the back of his hand to Whizzer’s forehead: it’s warm, still, but not burning, and he isn’t sweating at the moment.

“Marv,” Whizzer says sleepily.

“Yes?” he says, pulling his hand away.

“Thank you.” He opens his eyes, briefly, sincere and warm. “For letting me stay.”

Marvin smiles, hoping Whizzer can’t tell that his eyes are stinging. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Anytime.”

* * *

It’s only a _small_ fire that Cordelia’s started in his kitchen. So, really: things could be worse.


	8. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long! I got distracted writing a one-shot set a few months down the road in this 'verse. (Also, writing is hard.)
> 
> Obligatory note that I am not a doctor.

He’s unsurprised to find himself dreaming of a funeral.

In the way of dreams, though they’re burying him, Whizzer is standing beside him. He’s wearing his light green shirt, unbuttoned at the top, uncaring or unaware of the cold autumn wind that scratches at the back of Marvin’s neck, sets all his hair on end. Whizzer shifts restlessly, watching his own coffin being lowered into the ground. He’s never had much patience for ceremony.

“Yitgadal v’yitkadash,” intones the rabbi solemnly.

“You got me a rabbi?” Whizzer says snidely. “Wow, Marvin, I’m impressed.”

“Shut up,” Marvin hisses at him. “People are staring.” They are, a blank sea of them, faces pale and featureless. He thinks he sees Trina in the crowd, her eyes accusing. His mother, at the back.

“You can’t tell me to shut up at my own funeral.” Whizzer shifts again, rubbing at his arm.

“Is that rash bothering you? Do you need—”

“Shut up, Marvin. You’re being rude.”

Marvin rolls his eyes.

“Y’hei sh’mei raba m’varach,” recites the crowd. He mumbles along, shivering.

There’s a shovel, on the ground beside him. A pile of dirt. Marvin is supposed to throw the dirt in Whizzer’s grave. He’s supposed to bury him. This will give him closure, they’ve told him.

“I didn’t want to die,” Whizzer says quietly.

Marvin chokes back a sob. “I know.”

Whizzer shrugs. “I guess it’s how it goes.” He’s trying to be blasé, trying to stay nonchalant for Marvin’s sake. It makes it hurt so much worse. “Everyone dies eventually, right? It was just my time.”

“It _wasn’t_ ,” Marvin chokes out. “It wasn’t your time, it wasn’t even close to your time—”

“Marvin—”

“It isn’t _fair,_ ” Marvin wails. “It isn’t _right_. You had your whole life ahead of you, this shouldn’t have happened, this _can’t have happened_ —”

“Marvin, wake up—”

Whizzer starts to cough, his lips turning blue, his eyes rolling back in his head—

“Marvin!”

He opens his eyes.

Whizzer is hovering over him, his face pale and drawn, his hand on Marvin’s shoulder. “Hey,” he says warily. “You okay?”

Marvin stares at him, watching a coffin being lowered into the ground behind his eyes.

“Marvin? Are you—oof!”

He’s lunged up, pulling Whizzer tightly into his arms. Whizzer stiffens, confused, but after a moment his arms come up to circle Marvin’s back, patting hesitantly at his shoulder.

He clutches him, willing himself to calm down. Whizzer is here, he’s right here, safe in his arms, breathing hard but breathing, feverishly warm but at least not turning _cold_ , not in the ground, not buried and _gone_ —

“It’s okay,” Whizzer says tentatively, as he shudders. “It was just a dream.”

Marvin nods against his shoulder. Just a dream. Whizzer is here, he’s okay, he’s fine—

He starts coughing, and Marvin jumps a mile, pulling out of his embrace. “Sorry,” Whizzer pants, pressing a hand hard to his chest. “Tried to—hold it in—”

“No, don’t do that,” Marvin says, his voice low and rough. He clears his throat, trying to tilt up Whizzer’s face with his hand, get a look at his lips. Just to be sure. “Charlotte said not to do that.”

Which Whizzer may or may not remember, from last night. He ate enough of Cordelia’s concoctions to satisfy all three of them, but Marvin’s not really sure how conscious he was afterwards. He barely made it through Charlotte and Cordelia leaving before he was out like a light.

Marvin hadn’t bothered trying to sleep in Jason’s room, after that. If Whizzer needed anything, he was going to make sure he knew about it.

Like some water, for instance. Now that he’s taking the anti-emetic, he’s starting to drink a lot more of it, so Marvin’s lined up three glasses on the end table rather than have to run back and forth to the kitchen all the time. “Here,” he says, reaching over to hand him the middle one. The one on the right is already empty.

Whizzer gulps it down, still holding his hand to his chest. “Sorry,” he says again, putting the glass back down. He looks up at Marvin, eyes warm and concerned. “Are you okay? You were mumbling something, in your sleep. Sounded like a prayer.”

The mourner’s kaddish? How morbid. He’s just glad Whizzer didn’t recognize it.

“I’m fine,” he says brusquely. “How are you doing? Let me see your oxygen levels.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes, but he holds up his hand. He’s at 90%, which, considering he was just coughing, is really not all that bad.

“Okay,” Marvin says, starting to get up. “I want to take your temperature—”

“Wait.” Whizzer looks a little tentative, a little uncertain, but there’s still worry in the way his eyebrows pinch, in the hand he lays on Marvin’s wrist. “Do you—do you want to talk about it?”

 _I didn’t want to die_ , says the Whizzer from his dream.

Marvin turns roughly away, shaking off Whizzer’s hand. If he talks about it, he’s going to fall apart, and Whizzer doesn’t need to see that. He has enough to worry about.

Besides, it was just a stupid dream.

* * *

But he can’t seem to shake it, all morning.

After he takes his temperature, helps him to the bathroom, and makes him eat a little breakfast and take his meds, Whizzer falls back asleep, readily enough that Marvin can guess it was his own nightmare that woke him in the first place. He must have been pretty loud, then, or possibly kicked him somehow. It’s been taking a lot to wake Whizzer up, lately.

But that’s okay. He’s starting to get better, now. Even Charlotte said so.

He’ll just go check on him again, to make sure.

He groans, shoving the laptop away from him on the kitchen table. He’s sent himself out here to work, to leave Whizzer alone and let him sleep, which he still needs so much of. He can’t just keep creeping back into the bedroom to check on him. If Whizzer really is starting to sleep lightly again, he’ll just wake him up, and that isn’t fair.

(Himself, in his dream, wailing: It isn’t _fair_ , it isn’t _right_ …)

He stands abruptly, the chair legs scraping along the floor. Well, so much for not waking Whizzer up, then. He should go check and see if he’s awake, see if he needs anything…

“Get a grip,” he tells himself out loud. He needs a distraction, badly. Really, he needs to get out of the apartment. He’s not usually one to get claustrophobic, but it’s starting to feel like the walls are closing in.

And, well, he does need groceries, so…

With a guilty glance at his laptop, he pulls out his phone from his pocket, typing quickly before he can start to second guess himself. _Are you home?_

 _yes!!!!!_ comes Cordelia’s answer barely a second later. _do u want 2 try some roogala????_

Some what? Actually, never mind, he’s not sure he really wants to know. _Do you think you could come over for a bit? I need to run some errands._

_of course!!!!! be right there!!!!!_

And he thought Whizzer was a bad typist. Really, are all those exclamation marks _necessary?_

True to her word, Cordelia comes over not five minutes later, covered in flour and beaming. “Hi!” she says, going in for a hug, which he just manages to dodge. Whizzer may not think much of his clothes, but they’d hardly be improved by an impromptu whitewash.

“Oh, sorry!” Cordelia says, following his gaze. “I meant to get changed, but then the timer went off and I kind of forgot.” She holds up a plate of burned cookies, setting them proudly down on his counter. “Rugelach!”

Oh, so that’s what she was trying to say, earlier. It looks like she’s baked them just about as well as she spelled them; he can’t even tell if there’s any jam inside, what with all the… black. “Uh, thanks.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Do you want to go get changed, before I go?”

“Oh! Right! Yeah, if you don’t mind? I’ll just be a second!”

“Take your time,” he says wryly. “I’m just going to let Whizzer know you’re here.”

She gives him an odd look, but she doesn’t say anything as she goes.

Whizzer is still asleep, after all; Marvin is equal parts relieved that he didn’t wake him and dismayed that he’s going to have to wake him now. He sighs, fighting with himself. He _could_ just let him sleep; he’ll probably be back before his next mealtime, anyway, and it’s unlikely that Whizzer will wake up on his own while he’s gone. But then, if there’s traffic, or the store is crowded, or if Cordelia bangs too many pots around in the kitchen…

But then again, will Whizzer even care if he goes without telling him? So what if he wakes up and Marvin’s not there? Cordelia can get him water if he needs it, and food if he’s running late. And if there’s an emergency, she can call him. She _will_ call him. He doesn’t need to make a fuss about this.

He’s just going to check on his oxygen levels before he goes.

Whizzer’s sleeping with his back propped up against the pillows, the hand that’s wearing the pulse oximeter on his far side, at just the wrong angle for Marvin to see it. He glances at his face, calm and slack, then carefully reaches over to lift up his hand so he can get a look.

Which is of course when Whizzer wakes up with a start, flailing so badly he very nearly punches Marvin in the face.

“Whoa, hey!” Marvin exclaims, grabbing his wrists none too gently. “Jesus, Whizzer, calm down, it’s just me.”

“Marvin?” Whizzer blinks up at him, his eyes bright and bewildered, a splotch of hectic color on his cheeks.

“Hey,” Marvin says carefully. “You okay?”

Whizzer starts to cough, but he nods as Marvin lets go of his wrists, setting them down with an apologetic pat to his hand. The one that’s wearing the oximeter, which is reading right now at 89%, low enough that Marvin bites down on his lower lip in worry.

That color on his cheeks isn’t looking so good, either. Maybe he shouldn’t go out right now after all.

Whizzer reaches out blindly for the water on the side table, which Marvin passes to him, noticing as he does that he’s only got half a glass left. So he must have woken up sometime earlier, then, while Marvin was debating whether to check on him or not.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you,” he says as Whizzer drains the glass.

“S’okay,” Whizzer says with a shrug, setting it back down on the side table. “Sick of sleeping, anyway.” He moves to sit up a little, his eyes getting clearer as he shakes some of the bleariness off. “What’s going on?”

“I was going to go out,” Marvin says. “Just wanted to check on you before I left.”

Whizzer coughs again, briefly. “You’re going out? Where?”

“Just the grocery store. Nowhere exciting.” Maybe. If those numbers start to rise again, anyway.

Whizzer looks a little wistful. “Wish I could go.”

Marvin laughs. “Hey, feel free. I hate grocery shopping.”

Whizzer gives him a wry look. “I know.”

Oh. Right. He should probably think before he speaks.

“Do you want anything? From the store?” he asks hurriedly, before the silence can get too awkward. And, anyway, he’s been realizing he doesn’t actually seem to know what Whizzer likes to eat. Everything he can remember him cooking—steak, salmon, that one pasta dish he could reliably make well—had been made for Marvin’s sake, at Marvin’s request. He’s not sure if he ever even asked once what Whizzer would like for dinner.

And it doesn’t help to think of restaurants, either, because there he would just order the most expensive thing on the menu, regardless of what it was. All while watching Marvin very pointedly.

It had been kind of hot, actually. In that it was incredibly infuriating.

“Dunno,” Whizzer says. “Can’t think of anything.”

Marvin bites his lip again. Whizzer’s been drinking more water, with the anti-emetic, but he hasn’t actually been eating much more, not without careful prompting. “There has to be something you’d want. Soup? Pasta? Bagels, maybe?”

“Actually,” Whizzer says, his tone weirdly cautious, “do you think you could get me some disposable razors?”

Marvin blinks. “That’s not food.”

“Yes, well done, Marvin,” Whizzer deadpans. “Glad to hear you’ve finally mastered what is and isn’t edible.”

“Shut up,” Marvin says mildly. “Why disposable razors? I can buy you a real one.”

Whizzer looks away, something skittish in his gaze. “I have a real one. Left it at home.”

Well, that explains the stubble on his face, then. It’s practically becoming an actual beard, by this point. “Oh. Alright then.” Then he stops, thinking about it. “Actually… I could pick it up for you, if you want.” He looks him over, ruefully. “Maybe get you some of your clothes, too, since mine clearly don’t fit.”

“No, that’s okay,” Whizzer says, still with that odd caution in his voice. “Your clothes are fine.”

Marvin stares at him.

“What?”

“Whizzer,” Marvin says slowly, “you just called my clothes _fine_.”

“Well, I mean, they’re atrocious, obviously,” Whizzer backpedals quickly. “I didn’t think that had to be _said_ —”

“Nope, unh-uh, you’re not getting out of this now,” Marvin cuts him off, sitting down on the bed. “Something’s clearly up.”

“Don’t you need to go?” Whizzer says weakly.

As if on cue, he hears the door opening, Cordelia setting something down in the kitchen. He hopes it’s not _another_ plate of burned cookies.

“No,” he answers. She can occupy herself for a moment, while he figures out what’s going on here. “Not until you tell me what this is about.”

But Whizzer’s brow is furrowing, glancing over at the door. “Who’s that?”

“Cordelia. She’s going to hang out here until I get back. Don’t change the subject.”

“You got me a _babysitter?_ ” Whizzer says, exasperated. “Jesus christ, Marvin—”

“Well I can’t just leave you here on your own,” Marvin snaps, starting to get annoyed himself. “Come on, don’t be stupid, Whizzer.”

“I’m not _stupid_ ,” Whizzer says, bristling. “And I’m not a _child_ , either—”

“Oh, don’t start this again—”

“Are you ever going to trust me?”

That stops him in his tracks.

“What?” he says, after a speechless moment. “I—Whizzer—what do you mean?”

“I mean what I said.” Whizzer’s staring at him with hurt in his eyes that he’s trying very hard to mask with anger. “Are you ever going to trust me?”

He can’t for the life of him figure out what trust has to do with it. “You can’t be alone,” he settles on, after a moment of sheer confusion. “If something happened—”

“Then I could call for help. I know you think I’m an idiot, Marvin, but even I can handle three numbers.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “You literally just called me stupid, like, a second ago.”

He did, didn’t he? “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Whiz. I don’t think you’re stupid. I just don’t want to leave you alone.”

Whizzer stares at him.

“What?”

“I just…” He looks away, suddenly awkward. “I didn’t expect you to apologize.”

He’s not really sure what to say to that.

Whizzer says, still not looking at him, “This is really weird for me, you know.”

“What is?”

“It’s like… I don’t know, you’re so _different_.” He laughs a little, weakly. “It keeps throwing me off.”

He’s not sure what to say to that, either. “Different in a good way?” he manages after a long moment.

“Yeah,” Whizzer says softly. “Yeah, you’re… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I just never guessed that you’d be… so much happier.” He doesn’t say it, but Marvin hears it: _Without me._

And Marvin still doesn’t know what to say. He _is_ happier, much happier, than he was when they were together. But it has nothing to do with Whizzer. It has everything to do with him.

The fact is, he wasn’t ready for Whizzer, when he had him. And now that he is, now that he can finally be the man he wants to be, for him…  now it’s too late.

But he can be his friend. Not like he used to mean the word, as an excuse for his trysts to a wife he couldn’t love. He can be a friend like Whizzer deserves, a friend who won’t force him to deal with his own stupid, romantic baggage that Whizzer’s free spirit had never had the patience for.

So he says, somewhat regretfully, “I should get going. Are you sure there’s nothing you want?”

“Razors,” Whizzer reminds him.

“Anything _edible?_ ”

He shrugs. “Still can’t think of anything. Don’t make that face,” he adds after a moment. “Just get me whatever, I’ll eat it.”

“Gonna hold you to that,” Marvin warns him.

“I swear to god, if you come back with some weirdass, like, cow tongue or something just to be an asshole—”

Marvin laughs. “Not a bad idea, actually—”

Whizzer swats him. “Get out of here, you dick. I like Cordelia better than you anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marvin says, standing. He takes the opportunity to peek at the oximeter as he does: it’s at 91%, now, and he doesn’t look as flushed, either. Also, he thinks ruefully, catching Whizzer’s look of fond exasperation, he’s apparently not as subtle as he thinks he is.

“I’m not going to die while you’re gone,” Whizzer says indulgently. Marvin hopes he doesn’t notice the way he flinches, a shiver running down his spine. “Get going.”

“I’ll be back soon,” Marvin promises. Then grins, wickedly. “Be a good boy for the babysitter.”

Whizzer levels him a withering glare. “Watch it, Marvin. I know where you sleep.”

He’s practically cackling as he walks out the door.

Cordelia’s eyebrows shoot up when she sees him. “Well, you look happy.”

“He said that too, actually,” Marvin says. “Kind of makes me wonder how much of a grouch you all think I am.”

Cordelia grins. “Sure you want an answer to that?”

“No, definitely not.” He sighs, the humor fading fast. “Call me if anything happens?”

Cordelia’s eyes are kind, even as she pushes him impatiently towards the door. “Nothing’s going to happen, Marvin. We’re just going to swap embarrassing stories about you, that’s all.”

“Hey, what—!”

“Whizzer,” Cordelia calls loudly, “did Marvin ever tell you about that time he—” She mimes an awkward little dance that, thank god, Whizzer can’t actually see. One that she _promised_ him she would never tell a living soul about, not even her _wife_.

“Cut it out!” Marvin squawks.

“That time he what?” comes Whizzer’s hoarse, eager voice from the bedroom.

“Better go before I really do tell him about it,” Cordelia singsongs.

“That time he what?” Whizzer calls again.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Marvin says hastily. “Jesus christ.”

Cordelia laughs. “Take your time, Marvin,” she says kindly. “We’re going to be fine here. Give yourself a break.”

“Yeah, grocery shopping,” he mutters. “Real relaxing.” But he smiles at her as he picks up his keys, shoving his phone in his pocket. “You’ll call me if anything—?”

“ _Yes_ , Marvin. Just go.”

With one last look towards the bedroom, he goes.

* * *

The store is crowded and loud, and worse, it doesn’t have cell reception. He stares down at his phone in dismay, picking through the narrow aisles, nearly running headfirst into an elderly woman who, when he distractedly apologizes, curses at him so loudly and so fluently that he thinks even Whizzer would be impressed. If he could tell him about it. If his phone would work.

If Whizzer’s okay, which he doesn’t know, because his phone isn’t working.

Okay, this is ridiculous, he chides himself, throwing a box of cereal into the cart so hard that he actually dents it. He’s being insane. Whizzer is a grown man, as he keeps pointing out. And yes, he’s very sick, and yes, he’s a stubborn ass who refuses to admit how bad things have gotten until it’s too late, and yes, he’s now passed out or gotten close to it twice in just the last week alone…

What was his point again?

“Excuse me,” says a woman behind him, trying to reach around him for a jar of tomato sauce.

Right, that Whizzer will be fine. Cordelia is there with him. She won’t let anything happen.

And this stupid… separation anxiety, or whatever it is, isn’t helping anyone. Least of all Whizzer, who may be stubborn and sick, but really isn’t an idiot.

He grabs the jar of sauce, barely hearing the woman’s “hey!” as her fingers close on air beside him. Whatever, he thinks, tossing it into his cart, there are plenty of others. She’ll be fine.

Whizzer will be fine.

* * *

And then he gets out to the parking lot, and there’s a missed call from Cordelia on his phone.

He doesn’t bother checking for voicemail, just frantically calls her back, barely able to hear the phone ringing over the ringing in his ears. He knew this was a bad idea, he knew that something was going to happen, he never should have left—

“Hi Marvin!” Cordelia answers cheerfully.

“What happened? What’s going on?” he demands. “Is Whizzer okay? Is he—”

“Ohmygod, calm down!” Cordelia exclaims. “Nothing happened, he’s fine!”

“Is he there? Can I talk to him?”

“He’s sleeping,” she says impatiently. “Geez, did you even listen to my message?”

“The phone didn’t work,” Marvin says, licking his dry lips. “In the store. No reception.”

“Well, I only called to tell you that Charlotte is coming over on her lunch break. I figured you’d want to be here.”

He looks down at his watch; it’s 12:16, and depending on traffic and when she leaves, she may actually beat him there. “Okay. I’m coming back now.” He hesitates, then adds quickly, “Nothing happened? He’s okay?”

“He’s perfectly fine,” she says, her tone hovering somewhere between sympathy and impatience. “We just talked for a bit, then he fell asleep.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “He’s very charming.”

He laughs, tucking the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can start loading the groceries into the car. “He’s a brat, is what he is.”

“Well, _you’re_ paranoid.” Her tone softens, grows serious. “He’s worried about you, you know.”

He stops, the handles of the plastic shopping bags digging painfully into his hands. “ _He’s_ worried about _me?_ ”

“He thinks you’re stressing yourself out too much. And honestly, Marvin, I don’t think he’s wrong.”

“That’s—I’m not—” He shakes off the bags into the backseat, unheeding of the jar of sauce that rolls out onto the seat and very nearly crashes onto the floor. “But he’s—”

“I know you were scared, yesterday,” she says softly. “But I think he’s starting to feel like a burden on you.”

“He’s not a _burden_.” He slams the back door closed, shoving the shopping cart up against the curb. He doesn’t have the patience to go put it back; he needs to get home.

“ _I_ know that,” Cordelia says. “I’m just saying, I’m not sure that he does.”

Marvin swallows, climbing into the car. How does he always manage to screw up this badly?

Cordelia sighs. “Just come home, Marvin. And try not to have a heart attack while you’re driving. The last thing he needs is for you to wrap yourself around a tree.”

He lets out a startled laugh. “Wow, thanks for that.”

“Just looking out for you!” she says cheerily.

He turns the key in the ignition. “I know,” he says, smiling. “Thanks.”

* * *

Charlotte does beat him there. He walks in with groceries loaded up on his arms to the sound of Whizzer coughing and her low, steadying voice from the bedroom. He hurriedly shakes off the bags, just catching the jar of sauce as it makes another wild bid for freedom. He must put it down a little hard on the table, because the next thing he hears is Charlotte saying dryly, “And that must be Marvin.”

“Likes to—make an entrance,” Whizzer agrees around the cough.

Please. If anyone likes to make an entrance, it’s Whizzer Pretty Boy Brown.

“Hi,” he says, walking into the room. Whizzer is sitting up in the bed, his legs crossed under the blankets, coughing into the sleeve of Marvin’s T-shirt. Charlotte is sitting by his feet, dangling a thermometer idly between her fingers as she waits for the cough to settle.

“Hi!” says Cordelia, who’s standing with a hand on her wife’s shoulder, turning to face him as he enters.

He stops just inside the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. “How’s he doing?”

Charlotte sighs. “His version or mine?”

“Definitely yours,” Marvin says, as Whizzer looks up at her indignantly.

“About as well as can be expected,” Charlotte says. “Though I’d still prefer him to be in the hospital.”

“I’m fine,” Whizzer grates out as the coughing stops.

Marvin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Whiz, you’re always fine. Drink some water.”

“No,” Whizzer says sulkily as he reaches for the glass.

Charlotte looks like she’s holding back a smile. “I do have to admit, if his oxygen levels remain steady over the next day or two, he may not even need the supplementary oxygen.”

Whizzer looks up at him triumphantly, putting the glass back down. “See?”

Marvin can’t help his smile. “Yes, good job breathing, kid.”

“Fuck you,” Whizzer says lightly.

Charlotte laughs. “Just keep an eye on it.” She hands Whizzer the thermometer, who sighs as he puts it under his tongue, his expression long-suffering. “And don’t let him tell you he already took the antihistamine, because he didn’t,” she adds as soon as it’s in place.

“Hey!” Whizzer says, garbled around the thermometer.

“The more you try to talk, the longer you have to keep that in,” Charlotte scolds him. Whizzer smirks, and she rolls her eyes. “Don’t start. Believe me, there isn’t a dirty joke you could make that I haven’t heard already.”

Marvin, who was getting ready to scold Whizzer himself, pauses. “What about—”

“Heard it,” Charlotte cuts him off.

Whizzer grins at him, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

“Okay,” Marvin says, grinning back, “but what about—”

Charlotte groans. “The pair of you, honestly! Delia, remind me why we ever talk to men?”

“Because the cissexist heteronormative patriarchy forces us to be complicit in our own oppression,” Cordelia answers solemnly.

“Jesus christ,” Whizzer says, removing the thermometer as it beeps, “this is why I never make friends with lesbians.”

Marvin laughs. “Because they use big words?”

“No, because they don’t like dick jokes.”

“Temperature’s at 100.7,” Charlotte reads. “And you _have_ made friends with lesbians, you _adolescent_ , or what do you think we are?”

“See, she even says ‘adolescent’ when you know what she means is ‘dick,’” Whizzer complains, but he looks a little taken aback. And, Marvin thinks, smiling, possibly a little touched, too.

“Alright,” Charlotte says, standing with a groan, “I need to get back to work. Marvin, watch this idiot, will you?”

Marvin grins. “You know I will.”

“And Whizzer,” she continues, as Whizzer sputters, “ _you_ watch _this_ idiot.”

“Hey!”

“Ha,” Whizzer says, smirking now. “You’re an idiot too.”

“Baby,” Charlotte says to Cordelia, ignoring them, “is there any more of that broccoli casserole I could take with me? I haven’t actually gotten to eat anything yet.”

Cordelia’s whole face brightens. “Of course! I’ll go pack it up for you!” She gives Charlotte a quick kiss, then practically runs out of the room.

“I did eat already, actually,” Charlotte confides to him quietly. “But if I take it in for ‘lunch,’ she won’t make me eat it for dinner.”

Marvin laughs. No, Charlotte’s just a sap, who’d do anything to make the woman she loves happy. He glances at Whizzer, catching him mid-yawn. He can understand the feeling.

“I guess I should get back to work, too,” he says, as Charlotte leaves. “And put the groceries away.”

“Let me know if you need help reaching the top cabinets,” Whizzer taunts.

Marvin glares at him. “Haha, very funny.” He sighs, crossing briefly over to sit on the bed, in the spot Charlotte just left. “You need anything? Have you had lunch?”

“Cordelia gave me… something,” Whizzer says. “But I’m not really sure what time that was.”

“I’ll check with her. What about your meds, did you take them?”

“Yes, I took my meds,” Whizzer says impatiently. “Stop fussing.”

“But not the antihistamine,” Marvin points out. “Which you _are_ going to take.” With the T-shirt on, he can see the rash on his arm clearly, which looks painful and irritated even if it is smaller than it was the other day.

Whizzer groans. “Marvin, seriously, relax. Your frozen pizzas are melting, go put them away.”

“I didn’t get any frozen pizzas,” he says. “But I did get you ice cream.”

Whizzer blinks. “You did?”

“I did.” He hadn’t remembered until halfway through the store what a sweet tooth Whizzer’d had, and then he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Hell, half the drinks he’d ordered were basically just liquefied sugar dissolved in alcohol. Kissing him after one of those had practically given him cavities. “You still like strawberry?”

“Yeah,” Whizzer says. And then he smiles, sweet and sincere. “Thanks, Marv.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, trying not to think about how if anything’s melting around here, it’s that unwieldy nuisance in his chest.

And also the ice cream, still in a bag on the counter. “Alright,” he says, standing. “I’m gonna go work for a bit. Go to sleep, I’ll wake you up when it’s your next mealtime.”

“Ugh,” Whizzer says, stretching out his legs. “Who knew that getting to just eat and sleep all the time would be so _boring_.”

Marvin laughs, flicking his knee affectionately as he stands. “You’ll miss it when you start feeling better. Better enjoy it while you can.”

“Mmm,” Whizzer says, yawning. “You should try it sometime.” He looks at him seriously, though his eyes are clearly starting to get heavy. “You don’t sleep enough.”

“I sleep fine,” Marvin says lightly, trying to shake off the unbidden image of a grave, a pile of dirt. He _does_ sleep fine, usually. But Whizzer always throws him off his rhythms.

He sighs, ruffling Whizzer’s hair, grinning as he purses his lips in annoyance. “Call if you need anything, okay? I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, yeah, go away,” Whizzer says. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”

But Marvin can feel his eyes following him as he leaves.

* * *

It turns out that Cordelia did feed him right around lunchtime, so he lets Whizzer sleep for a while, trying guiltily to catch up on work. Around 3:00, he makes him eat again and use the bathroom, then take his antihistamine. He falls back asleep shortly after, and Marvin goes back out to the kitchen, intending to spend the next few hours working.

He only gets an hour in before his apartment door opens, and he looks up with confusion that turns very quickly into guilty realization.

“Hi, Dad,” Jason says, throwing his backpack carelessly on the floor. “Why aren’t you at work?”

Oh, shit. He forgot to call Trina.

“Jason,” he starts, “listen, buddy—” But Whizzer, with impeccable timing as always, cuts him off by coughing loudly from the bedroom.

“Is that Whizzer?” Jason says excitedly. Then he stops, looking confused, edging on suspicious. “Why does he still sound sick?”

“Just hold on a second, kid, I’ll explain in a minute,” he says, getting up. “Just let me go check on him first.”

“You didn’t tell me he was leaving the hospital,” Jason says, following him. “ _He_ didn’t tell me either.”

“Jason, just wait out here—”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me—”

“Jason!” They’re outside the bedroom, now, close enough to hear Whizzer’s rasping breathing as the cough dies down. “Go back to the kitchen. I’m just going to check on him.”

“Why can’t I see him?” Jason says very quietly.

Marvin sighs. “Because I don’t think he’s really awake right now. Go back to the kitchen, I promise I’ll explain.”

Jason doesn’t move, but at least he doesn’t follow as Marvin enters the bedroom.

“Hey, Whiz,” he says, crossing over to the bed. Whizzer’s eyes are open, but his pupils are wide and dark, following him vaguely as he checks that the glasses he’d refilled earlier are still full. “You awake enough to drink some water?”

Whizzer blinks at him. “Marvin?”

“Yeah, kiddo.” He’d been like this yesterday, too, when he’d tried to wake him after taking the antihistamine: sluggish and disoriented, probably half stuck in dreams. It’s no wonder he hates the thing so much. “Here, drink some of this.”

Whizzer takes the glass but doesn’t drink from it, just watching him with those dark, wide eyes. It’s a little creepy, honestly.

“Drink,” Marvin says again, and finally he does, taking a long swallow before passing the glass back.

That seems to take all of his energy, because by the time Marvin puts the glass down and turns back to him, he’s already out again. Marvin chuckles, brushing his hair from his eyes. “Just gonna check your oxygen,” he whispers, just in case he’s still awake enough to hear.

But unlike this morning, when he carefully lifts his hand, Whizzer doesn’t stir at all. The oximeter reads at 92%; he sets his hand back down gently, taking a moment to fuss with the blankets to make sure his shoulders are covered.

And then he turns to leave, and sees Jason watching him from the doorway.

He sighs. His kid has never listened to him before. Why should he start now?

Jason turns, heading for his room. Marvin considers letting him go, giving him time to cool off on his own, but he knows what would happen: Jason would sulk in his room all night, and Marvin would never get up the courage to force him to talk, and tomorrow morning both of them would pretend that nothing had happened. And that isn’t going to work, not this time. For one, Whizzer is still going to be here tomorrow.

Besides, he owes his kid better than that.

So he follows him, somewhat pleasantly surprised when Jason doesn’t slam the door in his face. He just sits on the bed, tucking his knees up to his chest, refusing to look up as Marvin sits cautiously beside him.

“Okay,” Marvin says. “I promised I’d explain, huh?”

Jason says nothing.

“He got out of the hospital on Wednesday night,” he starts. “I had him come here so I could keep an eye on him.”

Still no response.

“Charlotte’s been watching him, too,” he says. “She even came over on her lunch break earlier.”

Jason is sitting perfectly still, staring blankly at his knees.

“Bud?” Marvin says quietly. “He’s going to be okay.”

“He didn’t look okay,” Jason says, his voice very small.

“He’s just tired, that’s all,” Marvin tries to soothe him, but Jason glares up at him, suddenly furious.

“Stop lying to me! I’m not stupid, okay! I know what’s going on!” His shoulders are starting to shake, now, and Marvin reaches out for him on instinct, trying not to take it too personally when his son shies away. “I s-saw him, he couldn’t even d-drink the w-water—”

“Kiddo, he just took his antihistamine, that’s all,” he tries to explain. “It’s just his medicine, he doesn’t react well to it—”

Jason glares at him, wiping his face in a way so reminiscent of Marvin himself that it makes his heart hurt. “He’s dying, isn’t he?”

Marvin flinches. “Oh, buddy, no—”

But Jason isn’t listening. “David s-said,” he says viciously, trying to steady his voice. “He s-said this is how it happens, everybody l-lies to you, they all tell you it’s fine until suddenly he c-comes home to _die_ —”

“He’s not dying,” Marvin interrupts, a lot more sharply than he intends to. “Who the hell is David?”

“His mom died,” Jason spits at him. “Last year. From cancer. So he _knows_.”

That’s horrible, of course, but worse is the thought of his son seeking out his classmates, searching for other kids with sick parents, looking for reassurance that he should have been getting from _him._ “I didn’t know you were so worried,” he says, every word digging deeper into the well of guilt that's hollowing out his chest. “I’m sorry, Jason. I had no idea.”

“I know you love him, Dad,” Jason says reproachfully, and for a moment, Marvin is utterly speechless. “But I love him, too. And I don’t want him to d-die.”

His eyes are getting wet again, and Marvin shrugs off his shock with an effort. “He’s not dying,” he says, as emphatically as he can. “Jason, kid, I _promise_ you. We can call and ask Charlotte, if you want. Or Dr. Ramirez, you remember him, from the hospital? They’ll tell you the same thing, I swear. He’s getting better. He’s going to be fine.”

Jason bites down on his lip, looking up at him skeptically. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says fiercely.

Jason wipes again at his eyes. “Okay,” he says. And then, hesitantly, sounding like he’s fighting himself to get it out, he asks, “Can I have a hug?”

“Of course, buddy,” Marvin says, smiling, even as the guilt writhes horribly in his chest. “Come here.”

Jason lets himself be folded up into his arms, and Marvin presses a kiss into his hair, holding him tightly. “I love you, kid,” he tells him. “You know that, right?”

“Love you too, Dad,” Jason mumbles. He pulls away, looking a little embarrassed; Marvin lets him go with a sigh. Jason’s getting older, old enough that hugs are embarrassing, that saying “I love you” is starting to be a chore. But he’s still a kid, still _Marvin’s_ kid. And he’ll hold onto these moments as long as he can.

“Can I play my game now?” Jason says.

Marvin laughs. “Yeah, you can play your game.” He gets up, hesitating just inside the door. “Listen, if Whizzer’s up for it, you can come say hi to him later, okay? But he might be tired, so I’m not going to promise anything.”

“Okay,” Jason says. “Dad?” he adds as he steps out the door.

“Yeah?”

Jason bites his lip. “He really is going to get better, right?”

Marvin smiles at him, trying to put all of the confidence he doesn’t feel into his voice. “Yeah, kid, he is. He’s going to be alright.”

* * *

At 6, he wakes Whizzer up again, coaxing him through a bowl of soup before he falls back asleep. He and Jason order pizza, eat it together on the couch, watching some superhero movie that Jason seems enamored by and Marvin can barely keep his eyes open enough to take in. Maybe Whizzer was right: he needs to start getting some more sleep.

“ _Dad_ ,” Jason says, kicking him in the shin.

He startles awake, nearly falling off the couch. When did he close his eyes? “Huh? What?”

“Whizzer,” Jason explains, kicking him again.

“Coming,” he says blearily. “Ow. Don’t kick people.”

Jason shrugs. “You’re not people.”

Whizzer’s coughing loudly enough that he can’t believe it didn’t wake him up. “I am too people,” he mumbles, more or less to himself as he heads over to the bedroom.

Whizzer’s sitting up in the bed, though he can’t see anything more than that in the dark. “Hey,” Marvin says, switching on the lamp on the side table. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Whizzer says as the cough settles. He’s squinting a little against the light, his brows drawing together as he looks Marvin over. “Are you?”

“Fell asleep,” Marvin admits. “Don’t look at me like that. It was just a boring movie, that’s all.”

Whizzer gives him a _yeah, sure_ look, but he lets it go. “Time is it?”

“Uh.” He looks down at his watch. “8:00.”

Whizzer groans. “I slept for five hours?”

“You woke up a couple of times, actually,” Marvin says carefully. “You had some soup, earlier, do you remember?”

Whizzer shakes his head, slowly. “Last thing I remember is you telling me about some ad campaign you’re working on.”

Marvin smiles. It’s kind of sweet that Whizzer paid even that much attention, when all he was really doing was trying to bore him to sleep.

“Well, you woke up a little before that, too,” he says. “And, uh. Jason saw you.”

“Jason?” Whizzer says, surprised. “He’s here?”

“Yeah, I kind of forgot to call Trina,” Marvin says apologetically, sitting down in his usual spot on the bed. “Listen, if you don’t want him here—”

Whizzer scrunches up his face in confusion. “What? Why wouldn’t I want Jason here?”

He sounds so offended that Marvin almost laughs. “I just thought, because you’re sick—”

“Jason shouldn’t miss out on his weekend with you just because I’m sick.” He looks down, suddenly evasive. “I could go home,” he offers uncertainly. “I’m feeling okay—”

“Don’t start that,” Marvin snaps. “You’re not going anywhere.” He could be wrong, but he thinks there’s relief in the way Whizzer looks back up at him, the way his shoulders settle. “You’re sure it’s okay if he stays? It’s not going to stress you out or anything?”

“Why would it stress me out?” He gives him a hard look. “Is it going to stress _you_ out?”

“What? No,” Marvin says quickly. Too quickly, if the way Whizzer’s eyes are narrowing is any indication.

“Marvin—”

“Whizzer, it’s fine,” he cuts him off. “Look, if you’re up for it, I kind of told him he could come say hi to you—”

“Of course,” Whizzer says. “Hell, I’d be offended if he didn’t.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want _that_.” Whizzer sticks his tongue out at him, and he laughs. “Jason!”

“What?” Jason shouts back. “I’m watching the movie!”

Whizzer raises his eyebrows. “What movie?” he calls, hoarse but loud enough that Marvin’s pretty sure his son can hear.

He’s proven right as Jason comes all but running into the room, making Marvin reflect longingly on the days that he was young enough to have that much energy. “Whizzer!”

“Hi, kid,” Whizzer says, grinning. “What movie are you watching?”

“Avengers,” Jason says brightly. “Wanna watch with me?”

Whizzer’s face falls, just a little, though he tries to hide it. “Sorry, Jason,” he says, sounding sincerely sorry. “Not today.”

“Oh,” Jason says. “Okay.”

“But maybe sometime this weekend, okay?” Whizzer says, shooting a glance at Marvin.

“Whizzer—”

“If your dad will let me get out of bed,” he adds, rolling his eyes.

“We’ll see what Charlotte has to say,” Marvin compromises. “But definitely not tonight.” He hasn’t missed the way Whizzer is breathing hard, the hand he’s pressing to his chest.

Jason looks between them, his brow furrowed. “Whizzer? You’re going to get better, right?”

Whizzer smiles at him, a real one, small and sweet. “Of course I am, kid.”

Jason looks up at Marvin, who nods, feeling Whizzer’s eyes on the side of his face.

“Okay,” Jason says. And then, because he’s still a kid, he asks, “Can I go finish my movie now?”

Whizzer laughs. “Yeah, go ahead,” he says, before Marvin can say anything. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kiddo.”

“Night, Whizzer!” Jason says, already running off.

“I don’t know where he gets all that energy from,” Marvin says, watching him go. “It’s making me tired just to watch him.”

Whizzer huffs a laugh. “I know the feeling.”

Marvin turns back to him, taking in the way he’s leaning back hard against the pillows, the pallor of his face. But: “You should eat something before you go back to sleep.”

Whizzer groans. “Do I have to?”

“How about your ice cream?” Marvin bargains. He’s pretty sure that counts. Hey, it’s still food, right?

Whizzer considers this. “Okay,” he decides finally.

Which is good, because Marvin was going to give it to him anyway, but at least this way he doesn’t have to fight him about it.

He helps Whizzer to the bathroom first, then scoops his ice cream into a bowl, wishing he had an actual ice cream scoop instead of just a soup spoon to use. Jason, irritated at the sound, turns up the volume on the TV.

“Keep that down, bud,” Marvin says, poking his head into the living room. “I don’t want it to keep Whizzer up.”

Jason huffs, but he lowers the volume. “Is that ice cream?” he says, glancing over at the bowl in Marvin’s hands. “Can I have some?”

“It’s for Whizzer, Jason. Anyway, it’s strawberry, you wouldn’t like it.”

Jason pouts. “Why didn’t you get a _good_ flavor?”

“Because Whizzer likes strawberry. Don’t ask me why.” Marvin doesn’t even like ice cream that much, to be honest, let alone the weird fruit flavors. Why not just eat some real fruit?

“Can we get ice cream tomorrow?” Jason asks, already turning back to his movie.

“Maybe, kid. We’ll see.” Jason doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the screen, so Marvin heads back over to the bedroom, where Whizzer is leaning back with his eyes closed, not quite asleep but clearly getting there.

“Hey,” Marvin says, nudging him as he sits. Whizzer opens his eyes slowly, his gaze blank for a moment. “Eat this before it melts.”

Whizzer blinks, then forces himself up with an effort, reaching out for the bowl. “Ice cream?”

“Yeah, kiddo, it’s your ice cream,” Marvin says, amused. Whizzer gives him a sleepy smile, taking a spoonful.

And, oh, Marvin did not think this through. Whizzer licks at the spoon, humming in quiet delight, his tongue darting out between his lips, his eyes closing as he swallows… He looks away, shifting uncomfortably. Thank god Whizzer is half asleep; he doesn’t think he could take it if he noticed.

As it is, Whizzer is wholly focused on his ice cream, and despite his embarrassment Marvin smiles, watching him. He’s so easy to please, when it comes down to it: give him a warm blanket, or a head massage, or a bowl of ice cream, and he’s all but purring like a cat. He can’t believe he never realized that before. That he never even took the time to think about what made him happy.

Whizzer blinks at him, over the bowl. “What?”

Oops. Guess he’s awake enough to notice the dopey smile on Marvin’s face.

“Let me try that,” he says, to hide it. He grabs the spoon over Whizzer’s protests, scooping off a big chunk just to annoy him.

“Hey—!”

“Mmm,” he says, grinning as he takes a bite. Then, as he actually tastes it: “Ugh, yuck. You like this stuff?”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “You’re such a child,” he says huffily.

“At least I’ve got working taste buds.” He hands the spoon back with a shudder.

Whizzer raises a caustic eyebrow. “ _You’re_ criticizing _my_ taste?”

“In ice cream? Absolutely.” He makes a face, trying to get the cloying sweetness off his tongue.

Whizzer’s watching him with amusement, his eyes fond. It’s too much for his already dangerously lowered defenses. He looks away, rubbing at his itching eyes as an excuse.

“You should get some sleep,” Whizzer says.

“It’s not even 8:30.”

Whizzer shrugs. “Not going to stop me.”

“You’re sick,” Marvin points out.

Whizzer says, reproachfully, “So will you be, if you don’t start taking care of yourself.”

Marvin looks back up at him, surprised. “What?”

“Marvin, I’m sick, not _blind_ ,” Whizzer says, pointing at him accusingly with the spoon. “I know how stressed you are. Hell, I don’t even want to think about what your blood pressure looks like right now.”

“Is that an old joke?” Marvin says indignantly.

“Yup,” Whizzer says with a little half-smile. “But I mean it, too. You’re getting too worked up about all of this.”

“Too worked up?” Marvin repeats, incredulous. “Whizzer, a week ago you passed out in my kitchen. Just yesterday you nearly passed out in the bathroom. Are you really going to blame me for being worried about you?”

“Well,” Whizzer says, after a moment. “Maybe I’ll try your living room next.”

“That’s not funny,” Marvin hisses.

Whizzer grins. “Come on, it’s a little funny.”

“No it’s not!” God, why does he always do this? Why does he have to make everything a joke?

Whizzer sighs. “Marvin…”

“Whizzer, you’re not out of the woods yet,” Marvin says forcefully, looking down at the hands he’s clenching into fists in his lap. “Things could still go wrong, really wrong. And you keep saying you’re fine, but I’m not blind either, alright? You’re not fine.”

“I know,” Whizzer says softly.

This is unexpected enough that Marvin looks back up at him. He’s smiling at him, sadly, a tired sympathy in his expression that he tries not to visibly bristle at.

“I know I’m not fine, Marv. I’m sick, and I’m in pain, and I’m so tired I can’t even stay awake for more than an hour at a time—” He stops to pull in a breath. “And I can’t _breathe_ ,” he says, with such a depth of pure frustration that Marvin’s heart clenches in its turn. “It’s horrible, and it’s exhausting, and it _hurts_ —”

“Whiz—”

“But _you’re_ not fine, either.” Whizzer’s giving him a hard look, one he has to stop himself from flinching away from. Then he smiles, a little self-consciously. “Come on, I admitted it, it’s your turn.”

He laughs, possibly somewhat unsteadily. “No, I’m—” But he sees the sinking disappointment in Whizzer’s eyes, the bloom of hurt, and stops himself. It’s too reminiscent of this morning, the ache in his voice: _Are you ever going to trust me?_

And, well. It’s about time, isn’t it?

“I’m scared,” Marvin confesses. “That’s the truth, Whiz. I’m scared for you.”

Whizzer says, his voice low and small, “I’m scared, too.” But there’s a tenderness in his eyes, now, a quiet understanding. And Marvin finds he doesn’t object to that at all.

He puts a hand on Whizzer’s arm, stroking it gently. It’s been one week, since Whizzer texted Jason to ask for his number. One week since he saw Whizzer again, for the first time in well over a year, one week since all of this began. And yet it feels like a lifetime. It feels like he was barely alive before.

Whizzer smiles at him, his jaw shifting like he’s holding back a yawn. But he says, still in that soft, low voice, “Let’s not lie to each other anymore, okay? We’ve done that enough, between us.”

Marvin smiles back. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s try.”

And then, because Whizzer is Whizzer and can never let anything be, he says impishly, “Did you just say I was right?”

Marvin laughs, flicking his arm. “Don’t get used to it.”

Whizzer grins, the yawn he was holding back starting to overtake him. Marvin picks up the bowl of melted ice cream, looking down at it with distaste. “Are you done with this?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Whizzer says, yawning again. “You can finish it if you want.”

“No thanks,” Marvin says dryly. He stands, brushing a hand through Whizzer’s hair, smiling as he hums and closes his eyes. “Get some sleep, kid. I’m going to go finish the movie with Jason.”

“So you’re gonna sleep too,” Whizzer says drowsily.

Marvin chuckles. “Yeah, maybe.”

“S’a good movie, Marv,” Whizzer mumbles.

Marvin rolls his eyes. “You just think the blonde guy is hot.”

“His _muscles_ ,” Whizzer says dreamily.

“Go to sleep,” Marvin tells him fondly, ignoring with an effort the jealousy that swarms up into his chest. “I’ll be in soon.”

“Kay. Night,” Whizzer yawns.

Marvin smiles. “Night, Whiz.”

* * *

On the couch, he pulls Jason to him as they finish the movie, pretending not to notice the dubious look his son gives him. Still, he settles in against his side, curling up warm and small and content in his arms. There’s a lot to make up for, in his life, Marvin thinks, as he drifts off to the sounds of explosions coming from the screen, Jason’s steady breathing beside him. But at the end of the day, with his son here at his side, with Whizzer asleep in just the other room… all he knows, all that matters, is how grateful he is to get this second chance.


End file.
